


after deepest winter (there comes spring)

by fuechsli



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Comfort, Discussion Of Murder, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt, I'm not sure yet, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destructive Behavior, Team Captain America gets what they deserve, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and all the others - Freeform, and he'll get one, discussion of abuse, it's very likely though, maybe fluff in the future, mostly Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, not team Cap friendly, probably, troubled minds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-31 20:35:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13982865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuechsli/pseuds/fuechsli
Summary: Tony has been abused before.He’s just never had to smile into his abuser’s face and shake his hand in front of millions of spectators afterwards.And Barnes watches, and there'ssomething—understanding maybe, or respect, or even hatred. Tony can't be sure.But he'scurious, and that can only end in disaster.-or, where the Avengers get excused, and that's only the start of a whole load of trouble.And maybe something else.((summary subject to change))





	1. frost

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!
> 
> this is my first marvel story ever. if they’re out of character that might be because i haven’t actually watched the movies in a quite a long time—but i’ve been obsessively reading winter iron fics, in case that counts for something… 
> 
> also, this is a story with a not-quite linear timeline, and it’s the first thing of that kind that I wrote, but I still hope that it works out somehow? makes sense?
> 
> hope you enjoy :)

Tony has been abused before. 

By various people and with various methods, for various reasons, or none at all. 

He doesn't think anything else has ever hurt so bad, though. 

It's not even the betrayal—that, he could have dealt with; is used to it, after all. 

It's not the lies, the sneaking behind his back, the glaring lack of trust. 

It's not the open hostility, the insistence that it's _Tony_ who's at fault here, Tony who's to be blamed for this mess. The deliberate holding back of information that Steve _knows_ Tony should have known, that he could have prevented all of this, if only—

 

It's the expression on Steve's face, the anticipation of violence, so little _faith_ , after everything. The way he doesn't hesitate a split second to attack. The viciousness of it all, how there's no moment of doubt, not even the slightest chance of this turning out any other way than it does. 

 

And then the sudden, sinking realization that _this_ is the man he's spent all his life in awe of; envying him and wishing him to hell. Aspiring to become like him and unwilling to give in to his father's wishes. _This_ is supposed to be a hero. His hero. _The_ hero. 

And Tony finds that he doesn't care anymore. 

It's just Steve, and Steve's a mistrusting and prejudiced, lying and betraying old man who acts before he thinks and never stopped for long enough to listen to reason, and Tony really doesn't want to be his friend. 

It’s in the middle of the fight, and Tony realizes that Steve must have known, in some way, that it would turn out like this; to them fighting against each other instead of together against a common enemy, because said common enemy has used the knowledge of the rift between them to play them against each other and it’s working, goddamn it. 

But he can’t stop, because he honestly thinks Steve would kill him if he did, because yes, it might be him at the moment who’s the one at fault, it's him who can't stop to think (because that bastard _killed his mother_ and what else could he do to get rid of that _hurt_?), and the reason that Steve tries to throw into his face really falls on deaf ears because it just _doesn’t make anything better_ now, does it? 

 

But still. 

It’s a realization that gives him pause, and that pause is enough for Steve to get the upper hand in the fight. 

And for Steve Tony's not Tony-the-fellow-Avenger any longer, but it's Tony-who-just-ripped-his-best-friend’s-arm-off, Tony-the-enemy, Tony-the-Genius-Billionaire-Playboy-Philanthropist, and Steve almost just fucking _finishes_ it. Because he _could do this all day_ , couldn't he, and he just wouldn't stay down, wouldn't give in, because there's so much righteous anger packed into that body, and Tony's _right there_. And Steve doesn’t hold back. 

(Tony later admits to himself that there was a moment or two when he was able to see through the violent grief, through all the barely-processed memories of his parents, his _mother_ , and how she was ripped away from life, from _him_ , at the hand of that _monster_ ; moments when he knew that that monster was a man and had been through truly monstrous things, and in these moments he was deliberately playing with fire and death. Because he's so fucking tired of the pain. And it just doesn't seem to stop coming, no matter what he does.)

(It's a moment of weakness, when he admits that, a moment when he was already hurting, already self-destructing, so it doesn't really matter when he beats himself down just a little more, does it?) 

(There's a cigarette in his hand and dark shadows under his eyes, fingers blistered by a forgotten blow-torch, and his shirt is sagging from his body, but he's _fine_. He _manages_. It's a moment of weakness, but it'll pass, and then he'll be at it again; meetings with politicians and media-people, with families of the victims and the offenders; get-togethers with Helen Cho to work out a way to make Rhodey's braces more resistant, more flexible, better, _always better_ , to find a way to make them available to the general public in a way that's affordable for those in need without leading to serious losses for Pepper's company; shut away in his workshop to work on his suit, repair it and make sure that It’ll never fail him again, to just _do_ something, create things, help people from far away, because he's learned that he only ever hurts if he gets too close; dealing with Ross and the consequences of the Civil War, and Tony wants to laugh but he doesn't, can't, because he doesn't know what sound that laugh would turn into, and so he keeps his stoic mask and nods and says yes when necessary and shakes his head and says no when the situation demands and his position allows; and he works to make the Accords amendable, to shape them into what they were supposed to become all along; a way to offer protection to Gifted people, as they’re calling them now, the Supernatural and Talented, to create a network that doesn't demand and take and control, but that gives and creates connection and stability and some sort of hope, that gives responsibility to the people and trusts them to make the right choices, but still in a way that will hold accountable those who fuck up without putting blame on the wrong people, without letting them get away with it, just walk away from the destruction they caused, and Tony's so fucking glad when he can finally sign them and agree with what's written on that piece of paper, and he’s relieved and _hopeful_ when he surreptitiously slips Peter a copy of it and just lets him do with it whatever he wants.)

(He's _fine_.)

He forgets to eat sometimes, but then Friday reminds him, or maybe Rhodey does, or Pepper, or Vision. He's not alone. 

He just chooses to be, most of the time now. 

It's easier. 

Not having to pretend—quite as much. He can admit to himself that he's a weak man, but he will only ever be fine. There's no other setting for Anthony Edward Stark. He's always _fine_. 

(Because Tony is afraid of who—what he'd be if he weren't.)

(He fears he'd break.)

(And there wouldn't be anyone who knew how to put him back together.)

So he's fine. 

He lives. 

(He almost died in that bunker.)

 

Then there's the phone, and Tony comes very close to cracking. He can feel the fissure rippling through his chest, a very gentle and all the more dangerous version of the shield shattering through gold-titanium alloy and an arch reactor. (An arch reactor, not _his_ , because it’s not _in_ his chest anymore, he doesn’t need it to live, but sometimes he thinks that both he and Steve forgot about that in that moment back there; that they were both convinced he’d killed him. And they’d looked at each other and Tony has found that there’s nothing but disgust in him for that man any longer. (He knows he hasn’t been quite honest with himself in that moment, but then again he’d faced death and needed to believe in something.) Has thought that, maybe, they both regretted the way this turned out. But Tony had also seen, written plainly in Steve’s eyes, that he wouldn’t do anything different if he could. That he wouldn’t even _think_ about giving in and listening to reason, to trust Tony that he’ll manage to make this right, somehow. And then Tony had continued to breathe, and it’s been painful and so fucking difficult, but he’s still alive, and Steve leaves him in that bunker, throws his shield down at his feet as though it doesn’t mean anything ( _the Steve I know—knew would have fought for it, would have argued and_ won), looks at Barnes as though he means everything, and then they’ve walked out and fucking left him there with a suit that’s not working anymore and the task to explain to America why their Captain isn’t coming back home.) 

So Tony makes sure that he doesn’t break, doesn’t splinter and shatter and fall apart into a thousand pieces. 

(He’s fine.)

 

Every time his fingers itch and twitch in the direction of the phone, he reaches for a cigarette instead. It's a nasty habit. He smokes too much, but finds he can't stop, because he's always been one for addictions, hasn't he, always been quick to bite and never really able to let go again. It's the only explanation he can think of for why he still find himself reaching for the phone, turning and twisting it in his finger, _playing with fire_. The only reason for why he'd contemplate the things he does, and he _wonders_... How long would it take the world to change its opinion and welcome America's finest back on American ground?

 

 

Spoiler: it’s eight months.

 

 

Tony has been abused before. 

He’s just never had to smile into his abuser’s face and shake his hand in front of millions of spectators afterwards. 

(He’s fine.)

(He’s convinced that if he just says it often enough, it would eventually become true.)

His skin crawls where Steve’s hand is clasped on his shoulder, the perfect picture of mended bridges and amends made, debts paid and reconciliation, an illusion of a better world. He wants to shake it off, _get away_ , hide in his workshop and not come out for days, but instead he’s got his sunglasses slipped on and a confident grin on his face and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt less like smiling. 

(He notices that Barnes is watching him from the other end of the press conference room, where he’s standing with his back against the wall and hands in manacles for just a little while longer. His eyes are narrowed and sparking with— _something_ , and they’re trained on Steve hand on Tony’s shoulder.) 

(If Tony, say, didn’t have FRIDAY installed in his sunglasses, he’d be convinced that there was a look of hatred an Barnes face, and most definitely directed against Tony. But Tony _knows_ hate, and this isn’t, not really, at least, it’s more a sort of general attention, as though he’s noticed something and it’s caught his attention and now he’s watching and waiting for what happens.)

(Tony would be lying if he said that that didn’t make him curious.)

(Fortunately, Tony’s a rather talented liar.)

And so he smiles and nods, and shakes Steve’s hand, and the world doesn’t end.

 

Not right now, at least. 

 

Pepper and Rhodey and Vision and Peter behave as if it might, though. 

They all insisted on coming, too, and Tony’s protests have never been more futile, so they’re all here, all lined up behind and around Tony as though every single person in the room might pose a potential threat (and they aren’t wrong, exactly, but Tony isn’t about to admit to that) and even Happy’s with them, going about his bodyguard duties from Pepper’s side as he holds her hand and switches between glancing at Tony (regarding him with apologies and regrets in his smile and a real happiness in his eyes), and glaring at everybody else that meets his gaze. 

Their eyes are blazing, and they’re flinging curses, insults and false politeness left and right, interspersed with genuine queries about Tony’s wellbeing and Tony’s really fucking glad that he’s gotten Extremis out of Pepper because otherwise she would have long since blown the whole place up with the force of her temper. 

(Tony thinks that if he doesn’t make jokes (even really bad ones) he’s going to lose it, too.)

(And we just can’t have that now, can we?)

 

There isn’t a moment when he’s not under heavy scrutiny; either from his friends, his family, the ones who want to make sure that he’s going to be alright, or from the press, or from the spectators, or from the Rogue Avengers, as they’ve taken to calling themselves, or, surprisingly (or maybe not) from Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.

Tony finds it very difficult to keep himself from flinching every time Steve gestures animatedly, every time he laughs or comes close. It’s almost more difficult to keep calling him Steve in his mind, though, because it implies a closeness between them that’s really, really not there anymore. 

But his therapist said that sometimes you just have to call things by their name in order to get over them, and even though he has the faint suspicion that he’s being a little too literal here, Tony thinks it also doesn’t hurt. Much, at least. 

But just because he’s doing it in the privacy of his own mind doesn’t mean that he’s got to keep that travesty up outside of it. And so he’s keeping himself arrogant and aloof, distant and frosty, and he knows that he fulfills every expectation people might have of him now, and he _hates_ it, but he also can’t think of any other way to do this that wouldn’t end up with someone hurt.

And he _knows_ that that someone would be him. 

(Knows it because he still tastes ash and sand and ice on his tongue, because betrayal always leaves a bitter flavor, and sometimes the pain’s strong enough to consume his whole body, inside and out.)

(Because thirty-three hours are a fucking long time.)

(Because they left and they didn’t come back.)

(And no one’s even fucking _cared_.)

 

So he leaves his sunglasses on and keeps a cool distance from everyone as the day’s progressing, because of course the homecoming of the Rogue Avengers deserves a buffet and a celebration after the press conference, and of course Tony isn’t allowed to leave until the very end. 

Pepper and Happy and Rhodey and Vision and Peter know him now; they see the signs and know to give him a moment; to back up and watch from a distance, not crowd in too close and hover, because thanks to everything, Tony now also has acquired a certain kind of agoraphobia that starts kicking in after a few hours at the latest, and then it kicks in strong. As if he didn’t have a pretty, heavy load of issues before. 

But, as it happens, not everyone knows him as well as his family does (and thank fuck for that), but that also means that they _don’t_ know to back off right now. 

Tony knows he’s made a mistake in daring to show weakness in a place like this, because the moment Barton realizes he’s well and truly alone for the moment, he comes swaggering over, glass of champagne in hand and expression haughty. 

(Tony wants to run away.)

(And he wants to punch the asshole in the face.)

But he can’t to either, so he just tightens the grip on his own glass (there’s iced tea in it and it looks like whiskey, and though there’s a moment when he wishes for the opposite to be true, because _he can’t do this_ , he’s fucking proud of himself) and smiles blandly when Barton sidles up to him. He sees Rhodey move out of the corner of his eye and gives a slight shake of his head, subtle enough he’s sure even Barton wouldn’t notice it. It’s best to get this over with as soon as possible. And better to do it here, in public, where Barton can’t harm him (at least in a physical way) without putting himself in a delicate position that risks his newly gained freedom. 

 

Tony isn’t surprised to find out he’s wrong about that, too. 

He’s wrong about so many things lately. So many people.

He wipes the blood from his lip and grimaces at the rusty tang left behind on his tongue, but that’s just another one he’s used to, and he’s just proud of himself that he doesn’t get a violent flashback to one of all these other times he’s had the taste of blood in his mouth. He thinks his therapist would be proud, too. Not only for that, but also because he successfully refrains from punching Barton back. He can’t allow this to turn into the full-out brawl Barton clearly intended to cause from the moment he’s greeted Tony with a tilt of his head, a snarl on his lips and a provocative “Mr. Stark,” rolling from his tongue. 

Instead of clenching his hands into fist and giving that asshole a good whack, he fumbles in his pocket for the white handkerchief he’s started carrying around with him wherever he goes, and wipes off the blood from his hand and from his face where it’s still staining his teeth red due to the split lip and the perhaps-or-not broken nose. When he’s pretty sure he’s clean again, Tony inclines his head and says, “Mr. Barton.”

Then he leaves. 

The Rogue Avengers are not the only ones that gape after him, though Tony notices, with no small amount of satisfaction (and only a little frizzle of fear) that they’ve all lined up behind Barton in fighting stances the moment the man swung his fist. And they’re surrounded by security now, more than double their numbers, and Tony’s all the happier that he kept himself in check. This is the only form of revenge he’s ever going to get, so he might as well enjoy it. 

He also enjoys the fact that at least he’s got an excuse for leaving, now, and you can bet he’s going to use it. 

He smiles when he feels rather than sees his own family sidle up behind him, at his back, making sure that none of the Rogue Avengers (or anyone else) try their hand at much more literal back-stabbing than what he’s used to. 

He doesn’t let his smile fade when he sees Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes standing by the doors, so obviously _not_ at Steve Rogers’ side that Tony’s a little confused about how he could have missed before. Confused and curious, interest sparked, and fuck, but that’s a bad combination. It means he’ll need to get answers if he’s ever gonna be able to properly concentrate on something else again.

Good thing then, that he’s going to live in very close quarters with one Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes very soon, because of course there isn’t any other place where the Rogue Avengers could stay than at the Compound.

(He still doesn’t if it is a good thing too, that he didn’t realize back then just what that close-quarters future would hold in store for him.)

(He does know, though, that nothing could have prepared him for it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, thank you for getting so far! I hope you liked it :)
> 
> secondly, i actually have not yet thought of a real plot for this, there's some ideas and stuff that i have, bit i still have to work out how that will work together in the end. also, i really have too many open projects and works in progress, not only writing-wise but also concerning my art, which is all very time-consuming and thus i have no idea when i'll get around to update this.  
> (but my motivation will certainly be higher the more people like this ;) )
> 
> now, i wish you a nice evening/day, and don't forget to leave kudos and comments if you liked this <3


	2. mist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am actually not quite sure what this is. i wrote it mostly in the early morning hours when i'm not quite sane but have the urge to write, so. also, it was mostly driven by the need to provide you guys with more chapters, as you've really been amazing to me and i haven't even managed to answer a single comment yet.   
> they all mean so much to me like you can't believe, but i never find the right words to respond.. i'll try, though. 
> 
> i’m so very afraid i messed this up somehow, because it’s really not like the first chapter, but, uh, hope you enjoy anyway?

“And?”

Tony shrugs. His neck twinges. A headache pounds behind his temples as though it’s a living thing and wants to break through his skull, as though it’s desperate to claw its way out. Definitely a sign of too-long hours spent sitting at a desk, trying to reason with people who don’t actually want to listen to reason, who don’t want to hear a word he says but have to admit that, sometimes, his genius is useful, and that’s why they keep him at hand. He knows it’s not sympathy, not respect or due to any kind of trusting business relationship, and that still stings, at times. Hell, he doesn’t feel anything but a deeply-rooted disgust and maybe pity towards these bastards, but that doesn’t mean it gives them any right to—

Tony shrugs at Pepper’s raised eyebrow, too tired to worry about getting lost in his head while she’s watching. There’s nothing to say, anyway. “And,” he says, nevertheless, “Barton got away with a wrist-slap and a glare.”

Pepper stares at him, gaping.

It looks stupid, but Tony’s almost jealous of how perfectly pearly-white her teeth are.

The monster inside his head giggles; headache quickly becoming migraine. Fuck, but he’s exhausted. 

Tony shrugs, doesn’t even bother with a sardonic smile. “Did you honestly expect something different?” He shakes his head before Pepper can cut in with the protest Tony _knows_ sits just on the tip of her tongue, and stops himself before he shrugs again, because that doesn’t actually help lessen his throbbing headache. “No, you know how those dear (Rogue) Avengers have got them all wrapped around their filthy little fingers, closely enough that it only took eight months for them to decide that America can’t live without its Greatest Heroes. Nevermind all the people that died because of them, the destruction caused, the reparations that the poor and misfortunate have to carry because no one else bothers to. Believe me, Pepper, I know that it’s not fair. But that’s just how it is. Not much you or me can change about that.”

“But it’s still physical assault and battery!” The voice comes suddenly, and from an unexpected place. For the first time in weeks, Tony’s too tired to catch on early enough, to force himself _not_ to react or at least hide his flinch; and the breath’s punched out of his lungs when he whirls around, eventually spots Peter, where he’s perched on top of the fridge. Tony breathes in, lets his face go slack, suppresses the minute trembling in his fingers. ( _It’s just Peter._ ) The boy pauses when he realizes his mistake, grimaces with an apology in his eyes, but he knows better than to voice it. 

Instead he gets down from his perch faster than Tony’s exhausted mind can process, though he’s pretty sure there was a somersault involved, or maybe it was just inelegance, and starts talking. “According to Penal Code Sections 120.00 to 120.12 of New York State Law, Third Degree Assault — which includes, with intent to cause physical injury to another person, the offender causes such injury to such person or to a third person — is punishable with up to one year in jail and/or a fine of up to a thousand dollars. And you honestly want to tell me that Barton got away scot-free?”

Tony shrugs. He’s given up hope on going easy on his head, because legal talk alone has always been enough to make him dizzy, and Peter doesn’t look as though he’s ready to back down any time soon. His sore muscles protest and he longs for a coffee and a cigarette, but he knows that the only thing going down that particular path would lead to is his own passing-out. And he really doesn’t want to deal with that right now. Again. “Yes. No. I don’t _want_ to tell you that, but that’s the facts. You know how people are not good at dealing with it when their heroes turn out not to be all that great after all, when they turn out to have flaws like you and me and maybe even worse. It’s understandable, really, that they don’t want to face this whole mess. It certainly makes _their_ lives easier.”

“But—”

“And you also know, that people are very good at holding grudges. They still don’t trust me after Sokovia, after Leipzig and everything. They respect me, sure, but not one of them would ever dare to be alone in a room with me. They hate me more than they hate what’s become of the Avengers.” 

( _They’re used to hating me, after all_ , Tony doesn’t add, and he doesn’t laugh even when it bubbles up in his throat, choking him.)

( _It’s so very easy to hate Anthony Edward Stark_ , Tony knows, and he’s been doing it for a large part of his life. It’s still sitting there, the hatred, in the cave beneath his artificial breastbone, where the arc reactor used to hum life into him. Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever truly be able to let go of it.) 

(It’s too large a part of him.) 

(And there’s just _so much_ to hate.) 

So yes, Tony understands their reasoning. Or at least part of it. 

Peter doesn’t. 

(Tony can’t express how selfishly good that feels.)

(Can’t express how much he _regrets_.)

Peter’s response to what he calls ‘Tony’s bullshit-nonsense’ is one that Tony’s used to by now, and so he doesn’t even try to duck out of the way when Peter flips his fingers and flings a sticky ball of spider web at him that successfully manages to shut him up. Tony’s told the kid more than once that he ought to be proud of his invention for that alone, as shutting up one Tony Stark isn’t a feat easily accomplished, but more than once is less than thrice, because Tony’s given up on telling him that after about the third time; he just can’t stand the _disappointed_ look in Peter’s eyes whenever he says that, the silent ‘ _I hate it when you sell yourself short_ ’, the unspoken ‘ _don’t do this to me_ ’. 

(It’s another thing his therapist has made him aware of; deprecating and/or insulting himself via joking and offhand comments is not something he should continue to be doing if he ever wants to acquire something akin to self-worth.) 

(And Tony desperately wants that.) 

(Or, he wants to want it, at least. He’s still not quite convinced that he actually deserves it.)

(And that’s why he doesn’t let himself believe that Peter might actually leave a ‘ _don’t do this to yourself_ ’ unspoken instead.)

“You do not deserve to be hated, Sir,” Vision intones quietly, as if he found the ability to read thoughts now, and hell, Tony doesn’t even want to know where _he_ came from. 

“What he says!” Peter exclaims, enthusiastically, and whirls around to point at the android, forgetting all about his pre-loaded gag-web-flinger that still doesn’t have a sensible name, and it’s only thanks to Vision’s partial incorporeality that he avoids getting smacked in the face with it; instead, it just narrowly avoids the coffee-machine on the counter behind him. 

Tony gasps dramatically, and as always, the temporary gag-web dissolves as soon as he opens his mouth. “My coffee!”

“—can wait until the morning.” And there’s Rhodey, grumpy and with pillow-creases on his face, eyes in narrow slits. “Get the fuck to sleep, all of you. We’re all too tired to deal with this shit, and this is shit that needs to be dealt with. We can not allow Barton to walk away from this unscathed. Hell, all of them. They should be licking your shoes in gratitude, groveling at your feet, and not—bed. Go the fuck to bed, now.”

Rhodey runs a hand down his face and groans, then yawns hard enough that everyone can hear his jaw crack and winces in sympathy. 

Tony doesn’t have enough energy left to suppress his own yawn at that. And he doesn’t possess the willpower to protest, to try and deny it, because right now, surrounded by his family and no one else at ass-crack in the morning he can admit to himself that he really is mostly dead on his feet. His hands haven’t really stopped shaking, even if they’re stuffed into his dress pants’s pockets. “Argh, you’re right, honey bear. Bed sounds heavenly right now. Wake me when there’s an emergency. Or maybe not. We should let _them_ deal with it, for once.”

“Yes, boss,” FRIDAY replies dutifully, even though she knows it wasn’t really her he was talking to. Fuck, no, now she’d really not wake him and, in turn, take that as an excuse for also not doing so other times. And that can only lead to a catastrophe, eventually. 

Shit, but Tony really shouldn’t be allowed to open his mouth when he’s been awake for more than fifty hours—nothing good seems to come out of it then. But that also means that he can’t really do anything to fix it right now, and that, in turn, means that bed really is the only step left right now.

“Right,” Tony says, suppresses another yawn. “Night, Peter. Night, Pepper. Vision. Lead me to bed, platypus. I’m not sure I trust myself not to fall asleep on the way there otherwise.”

And Tony knows they all grin stupidly at his back, for listening to them for once and not letting this escalate, and he knows he’s grinning just as stupidly at the nothing in front of him.

Until there’s not nothing in front of him anymore, at least. Instead there’s a broadly muscular chest, and Tony blinks, confused for a moment before he pats it appreciatively, clumsily, ignoring Rhodey’s shocked whisper next to him, and just looks up at James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes’ face, mutters “nice,” and stumbles past him. 

He doesn’t understand the fuss Rhodey’s making. Sleep is the only important thing right now.

 

-

 

Eleven hours and thirteen minutes later, Tony _does_ understand the fuss Rhodey’s been making. But he’s also aware that there are more important things going on right now, things that _matter_ , unlike _Tony_ and his petty issues, so he just pushes the whole encounter to the very back of his mind and forgets all about it. 

There are things to do, people to avoid, nightmares to studiously _not think about_. His bots haven’t caught a glimpse of him in too long, and Tony misses his workshop, so that’s an easy decision to make about where to spend the day. Night. Whatever. 

With half a mind on the aerodynamics of his latest suit, the one that shouldn’t even crumble under the blows dealt by a vibranium shield wielded with Super-Soldier strength but currently is a little too heavy to fly elegantly, Tony decides to forgo breakfast slash afternoon…fast and directly heads down to the labs. He doesn’t want to run into any of the others.

To be honest, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s set foot in the communal kitchen. Not necessarily because it’s been so long ago, but more because there were Steve and Natasha and Wanda, and Tony has needed all of his concentration to not succumb to one of his stupid panic attacks when it has looked as though Steve might want to hand him a coffee cup.

He really doesn’t know why he’s doing this to himself. Why he’s letting them stay in his tower, his _home_ , instead of just kicking them to the streets the moment they started acting out.

Oh, right. Because his hands are quite literally bound; because the U.N. Committee, the very same one that let Barton get away with nothing more than a light scolding, doesn’t actually want the Rogue Avengers set free, doesn’t want them able to roam the streets and possibly attack innocent civilians. Right. Because Tony doesn’t count as civilian, right, because he’s not innocent, because he’s probably deserved it, _serves him right_ , because he’s always been prone to attracting the anger of everyone and everything around him. The Committee is terrified of the force of the Rogue Avengers, doesn’t trust them to keep to the Accords (even though they fucking signed them, at long last, and with surprisingly little protest, at least after they’ve been read to them (because you can’t trust them to actually do that by themselves.) (Tony couldn’t enjoy that knowledge, that they did it even after they so vehemently _didn’t_ , before, because he knows all too well just what has been lost in that time in-between, because of Steve’s stupid stubbornness and his conviction that everyone’s out to get him.)), but _people need their heroes_ , of course, people need to have Captain America and the Black Widow and the Scarlet Witch here to protect them; Iron Man and War Machine aren’t enough, and Spider Man, and Deadpool, and Stephen Strange, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Daredevil, and Iron Fist, and all the others. Because these guys aren’t nice and shiny, but they’re human, and _human_ is never enough, now, is it?

So, Tony might sometimes be afraid to sleep in his own bed, but there’s not really a choice. There’s only so much he can do and say until he himself risks ending up in jail, and the _Rogue Avengers_ really aren’t worth that. 

Besides, who ever asked the _people_ what they want?

Tony stops in his track, hand just hovering on the button for the elevator, but FRIDAY, the dear, lets the doors slide open anyway. Tony walks in, mechanically.

Who _ever_ asked the people?

 

Maybe he should start on that.

 

-

 

So, Tony’s successfully forgotten all about that early morning’s encounter with one metal-armed Super Soldier (and he certainly never thinks about the sting of disappointment at the fact that Barnes actually _has_ a metal arm (because just how fucked up is that), because there’s a much better model sitting in Tony’s workshop, covered by a flimsy blanket to hide from view, and he’s actually been proud of that artwork, has been excited to let Barnes try it on despite his own dislike of the man, but, well, that doesn’t matter now because there’s an arm in his shoulder and he really doesn’t need two of them. Or three, depending on how you’re looking at it.), and he really doesn’t expect anyone to be awake when he emerges from his workshop at a quarter to four in the morning, first tentative plans formed and feeling almost giddy already, too worked up to sleep but also enough so that he doesn’t trust himself around the lab in fear of fatally damaging either himself or one of his projects with that nice blowtorch down there or some other tool that he really shouldn’t handle when his hands are shaking quite that badly.

There’s no need for the phone anymore, but his fingers still itch, and he longs for a cigarette, and what better time for that than a quarter to four in the morning? 

Said and done, and Tony has a crumpled packet in his hand and is out on the balcony before he quite realizes it. 

He’s not alone.

The light that comes with a never-sleeping city below is not quite bright enough to illuminate the whole balcony, and so it’s just the faint glow from Tony’s cigarette and what little moonlight dares to break through the clouds and light pollution. Or is the sun starting to come up already?

Tony steels himself with a deep breath, turns around.

This time, he has to squint to make out that brilliant chest. Or, well, he can’t make it out _at all_ , because James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes is huddled on the corner seat of the rattan lounge at the far end of the balcony, his knees drawn up to his chest as he looks out at the city, and even at the distance Tony can see that he looks absolutely _exhausted_. He wonders who’s worse, him or Barnes. Doesn’t matter, probably. This isn’t a contest, after all. 

Tony closes his eyes and sighs out smoke, watches it curl away from him. Barnes’ eyes now track it, too. Or maybe they track him, waiting for his next move. 

Neither of them says anything.

Tony doesn’t know what words would come out his mouth should he open it, so he just—doesn’t. It’s probably safer that way, anyway, and caring for one’s own bodily health is a good thing, right? It’s a step in the right direction. 

And then, between one blink and the next, Barnes gone. 

(Tony realizes, in that moment, that it’s been the first time he’s been truly alone in a room (if you can call the balcony a room) with a Rogue Avenger (if you can call James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes a Rogue Avenger), and nothing’s happened. No earth shattering screaming-matches, no glares and silent judgement, no open hostility. Just—nothing.)

(But Tony also realizes, or at least starts to realize, that Sergeant James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes is an exception to pretty much every standard he could hold him against.)

(Tony doesn’t know why he smiles up at the moon at that thought.)

His hands have stopped shaking.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, that’s a thing that happened. 
> 
> i hope you liked it despite the messiness of the whole thing? and nothing even happened.. but, they will in the future, i'm pretty sure of that. though this is a fic that will probably deal more with the personal journey of tony and bucky than any real plot... we'll see.
> 
>  
> 
> let me know what you thought?


	3. ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, thank you guys for all your kind comments and great ideas! i read them all, but haven't quite yet found the time to respond to them accordingly. i will try to catch up on that, though!
> 
> i really love hearing your thoughts on what might continue to happen (and how to best punish the Rogues ;) ) to be quite honest, i haven't previously considered a lot of the points you raised, but i will now do so and hopefully come up with something satisfying for all of us :)
> 
>  
> 
> and now, finally, enjoy the third chapter. i'm really not sure about it, and i winged a lot of it, so... let me know what you think? <3

The first results start coming in after seven hours. Or, well, the first official results.

The first reactions are there only seconds after Tony’s posted the question on his social media accounts. And the press conference is only due the next morning, but already, there’s millions of people that wait for answers, that demand to know what he’s on about now, that don’t understand how that issue only gets raised now. How Tony could have swallowed it down for so long; not protested earlier, how he manages to live with them in close quarters after everything they’ve done. 

Tony realizes that these are the questions he’s been asking himself all along.

But of course, there’s the other side of it; all the people that get enraged just at the mention of the fallibility of their heroes, that start digging up some shit and scandals, make comments that really hit below the belt. 

Tony tries not to let it get to him. Tries to focus on the fact that these kinds of comments pop up much less frequently than he’d have expected; than they might have just a few months ago. 

But now, people noticed that Tony really was the only one trying to make up for his mistakes, _their_ mistakes, the only one taking responsibility, the only one to admit to being in the wrong. Because the Rogue Avengers have been back for over a month now, and not once have they even made a move towards an apology. Barton didn’t even blink an eye after security dragged him off the welcoming event. And thankfully, there are still people out there who don’t think violence is acceptable in any situation, especially not as the method to thank the one who dragged your sorry ass back from exile. 

The Rogue Avengers’ social media accounts aren’t exactly popular at the moment. Or, at least, not in the positive way.

Tony hasn’t considered the fact that this might be a bad idea, that maybe, he shouldn’t hang around the tower at the moment, at least not until after the press conference. 

The Rogue Avengers aren’t exactly happy with him, after all. 

 

A shadow in the doorway is the only warning he gets; there and gone again in a blink; the glint of a metal arm, the hint of disquiet on a stubbled face. 

Then there’s FRIDAY’s voice, with the same hint of disquiet, _distress_ , as she says, “Boss, you should—” but it’s too late. 

Steve’s there first, because of course he is. The anger his face is almost comical. Not so much, because his hands are flexing at his sides, like they’re itching for a shield to just fucking finish the job, and Tony has to remind himself that if he were going to do it, then it certainly wouldn’t be in Stark Tower, where FRIDAY is watching their every move, where the next suit is only a flick of the wrist away.

“How did you do it?” Wanda asks, and _god_ , they’re all here, in close quarters and with more or less murderous looks on their faces and Tony would very much like to run away now, thank you. Except he can’t because _someone_ has to be the responsible adult here and it doesn’t look as though anyone else is going to do it. (Tony knows that that’s not the only reason why he stays, knows there still that part of him, the part that he thought for a long time he’d buried at age sixteen, the part that’s prone to self-destructive behavior in a much more active way than all the other parts of him, that relishes in the danger that comes with standing there, looking his opponents in the face, just waiting for the first blow.)

“How did I do what?” Tony asks, eventually. 

“Convince them to write that,” Wanda says, just as Barton interjects with “Bribe so many people.”

Tony blinks at them. “What now?”

“Do you really have so much fucking money to spend that you think bribing a few thousand people into commenting on your ridiculous post is the right way to do it?” 

Tony stares. He can’t help himself. He has no idea what Barton is on about right now—well, he does, he can think of something, but he can’t quite believe Barton would be so stupid as to believe that—

“Yes, Tony,” Steve says, gravelly. “I’d like to know that too.”

—and apparently, Tony has overestimated the intelligence of the Avengers; or well, maybe he’s just _underestimated_ the lengths they’d go to think badly of him. 

He laughs, because what the fuck else can he do? “You’re kidding me, right?” and he hates the hint of desperation that’s leaking into his voice right now as he repeats. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Steve asks, and fuck, but he doesn’t. He just looks pissed off, really, and Tony isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to deal with that without breaking into a cold sweat. 

Tony swallows. “Not… exactly. But—why should I do that?”

It’s Wanda’s turn to laugh now, apparently. “Maybe because you’re a pathetic fucking bitch panting for some kind of acknowledgment, and you _know_ you’re never going to get it any other way because—”

“Wanda,” Sam Wilson says quietly. “That’s enough.” Tony knew there had to be _some_ potential in the guy.

There’s red swirls around the witch’s hands now, and she doesn’t look as though she’s even going to _think_ about listening to the Falcon guy, though. Her eyes blaze, locked on Tony, and fuck, but doesn’t that dig up some shitty memories.

Tony’s hands shake now, and he hides them behind his back, fingers clenched tight into one another, trying to hold on but knowing he’s fraying around the edges. “There’s a press conference tomorrow,” he says, and he’s so fucking glad he’s used to dealing with vultures, his voice doesn’t shake nearly as much as the rest of him. His eyes are cold as he smiles his press smile and backs out of the doorway. “Make sure to attend and you’ll get your answers then.”

He retreats, and he knows it’s fucking see-through, they’d have to be blind not to see just how much that encounter bothers him, but he can’t care about that right now. He just makes sure not to turn his back on them until it his the railing of the elevator and then he tells FRIDAY, “To the workshop, please, baby girl,” and he holds it together until DUM-E comes to greet him at the doors. 

 

-

 

He still smiles his press smile when Pepper comes down, later, and her expression shutters the moment she sees him. 

“Oh, Tony,” she says, in _that_ tone of voice, and for the first time in hours, his smile falters. He soldiers on, though, because if he can’t hold it together in front of _Pepper_ , how is he supposed to do it in front of hundreds of people, and a couple million more on live TV? 

He used to be able to do this in his sleep, goddamn it, why is it so hard now? When has he gotten so weak? ( _The moment you allowed yourself to be human, when you started accepting your flaws_ , a little voice in his mind answers, but he can’t acknowledge this right now, even if that’d disappoint his therapist.)

“What are you doing?” Pepper asks, softly, when Tony doesn’t answer. 

He decides to take that question literally and starts explaining about hydraulics and aerodynamic and how this could revolutionize the world, Pepper, if he only manages to make this work, and she smiles with sad eyes and doesn’t say anything about how they both know what he isn’t talking about.

(Tony is not fine.)

 

-

 

Barnes isn’t looking at him. He’s the only one, though. 

Every other eye in the room is trained on Tony, and Tony alone. Or at least it feels like that. He can’t actually make it out properly, because the stage lights are blinding, even through the sunglasses. 

But his mask doesn’t waver. 

There’s someone—supposed to lead the questioning, to moderate the opposing parties, make sensible comments throughout, lighten the mood. 

It doesn’t work out like that.

 

There’s shouts and demands, reasonable people with reasonable voices, whispers of rage and adoration. It’s chaos. And it’s not. 

 

“What are your excuses?”

“Why were you hiding?”

“How do you dare—?”

 

These questions are not meant for Tony. The glares accompanying them, for once, also aren’t meant for him. 

Tony doesn’t really know what to do with that.

(But he’s glad and his heart feels lighter and a little bit of the deep-seated guilt eases. Just enough so he can _breathe_ and make it through this alive.)

 

The Rogue Avengers don’t know what to do with it, either. 

They open their mouths and struggle for answers, but the truth is, they don’t have them. Or, they do, but they can’t say it because it’d make them look like the cowards and stubborn idiots they truly are. Like the lying and betraying creatures that house in their chests, twisting words and misusing tentative trust, the companionship that turned out to be wholly one-sided. 

It doesn’t hurt as much anymore, to see them exposed for once; trying to make something seem right when it only ever was _wrong_.

 

 

And then—

It’s a girl, or no, maybe not quite anymore. A high school senior maybe, or a college freshman. She’s got her red hair styled in two cute French braids, freckles on her nose and under her eyes and even from the distance Tony can see their vibrant green sparkling with life. 

(Even from the distance he can make out the tattoo on her wrist, and know she’s a survivor, too, that girl. Even if she doesn’t see it, yet.) 

(Not too long ago, he used to be caught by surprise when he realized that these were things that he could do, now. Sharper eyes are only one of them. Today, he’s not surprised; he’s accepted the facts that come with _surviving_ , for him. (He’s not exactly _human_ anymore, now, is he?))

Her voice is smooth, calm and curious when she asks, “I’ve got a question for you, Tony. How do you still live?” She pauses, frowns, ignores the whispers of the audience, and tries again. “I mean, how did you do it? After what happened in Siberia, and the way Rogers and Barnes left you there? The, I, uh, the cameras didn’t run much longer than that, and I couldn’t see how you got out, after.” There’s noise in the room now, and she blushes, ducks her head and adds, “I’m—I mean, sorry, for hacking the cameras?”

Tony grins at her, without quite realizing it. “Don’t be sorry, sunshine, that’s absolutely awesome! You’ve _got_ to tell me how you did that, and how you—but uh, maybe later? Sometime? I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about things that not everyone could understand, you know? Heard that makes for low self-esteem or boredom or something.” He smiles crookedly, even as he can see, clear as day, that the girl has seen that deflection for what it is. She smiles back at him, though, softly and much too knowingly, and doesn’t say anything. She nods and sits back down, immediately starting to scribbling away into the notepad she’s brought with her. 

 

It’s five minutes later, the discussion has long since moved on, when Tony looks back at her. Discreetly, she’s holding up her notebook, at an angle that _just about_ makes it possible for Tony to read the phone number she’s scribbled on there, the smiley face she’s but after. _Just about_ , which means that she knows—

Tony shudders, but for the first time in a long while he thinks it’s more of exhilaration than fear or coldness. Tony nods when he’s got the number memorized, and the answering beam on the girl’s face makes his heart swell with something he barely recognizes anymore. 

 

-

 

Time then passes too fast for Tony to really keep a grasp on it, and then it’s over, the hall empties, the lights go out, Tony’s still frozen in place, distinctly feeling Barnes’ eyes on him. And not just his. Also the ones of the rest of the Rogue Avengers.

Natasha’s the first one to say something, though. 

“What was that girl talking about?”

Tony freezes even further. His throat’s too dry. It hurts when he swallows. 

“What do you mean?” he asks. _Denial, denial, denial_. It’s an instinctive reaction, happens before he even has the chance to ask himself what he’s supposed to be denying. 

It’s not like he did something wrong. 

“Hacking security cameras? You know, I didn’t really think that was a field you’d be interested in learning about—”

“Cut the bullshit, Stark,” Barton hisses, and really, he’s not even subtle anymore. Tony can see Happy stiffening from the corner of his eye, where he’s been waiting discreetly for Tony to get ready with a couple other guards that’ve taken to sticking around whenever Tony decides to go out. He doesn’t really know why it really helps him feel safer, considering, well, _considering_ , but it does, and anyway, it’s the thought that counts, right?

“No, really,” Tony says, slowly. “What do you mean? I—she didn’t say anything scandalous, I don’t see why you would—” He’s not even trying to play dumb, he knows that doesn’t suit him, knows others can always see right through it and he doesn’t really—

Natasha knows it, too. Expression succinct and eyebrow raised, she doesn’t even have to say “ _Really?_ ” in order to convey it. She thinks he’s lying. Of course she does.

Frustration bubbles in Tony’s chest, and, for a split second it gets the better of him. “Just ask the question you fucking want to know the answer to, god damn it. I’m not a freaking mind-reader.” _Unlike your dear Scarlet Witch here_ , he can just about hold himself back from adding. His breath still aches in his chest, throat raw.

Immediately afterwards, exhaustion sweeps him up like an old friend, leaves him to hide the way he’s swaying on his feet. He couldn’t sleep the night before, of course, and also not the night before that. 

He’s allowed to be exhausted. 

Except it doesn’t feel like it. 

Lately, he’s always got to be on guard. 

Natasha sighs, sounding put upon. But she humors him, despite Barton’s glare. (His therapist agreed with him on that one, at least. No reason to keep calling that asshole by his first name.) “What did she mean when she asked about how you’re still alive after what happened in Siberia? I mean, come on, a couple scratches never killed anyone — except when they get infected, of course, but I know you wouldn’t—”

She breaks off, seemingly for the first time stopping to consider what it might mean if Tony’s dumbfounded speechlessness were absolutely authentic. Which it is, because _what the actual fuck—_?

He shouldn’t be so surprised, he knows that. Still, can you blame him for wanting to believe in some remnants of general honesty, fucking common sense, in Captain Fucking America? Their first hero? 

Tony’s getting used to being disappointed, though, to be reminded, over and over again, just how little people actually like him once they’ve met him. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. His gaze flits behind Steve, where Barnes is hiding. The man’s eyes are wide, too, blue and curious and quizzical, despite how cold and detached they usually always seem. There’s doubt in the quirk of his lips, and Tony looks away. He can’t deal with that, not now. 

Not when the realization finally hit, and he’s left swaying. Figuratively speaking, of course. He can’t know what they’d do if they saw just how weak he was, despite everything.

There’s a knot in Tony’s stomach that makes breathing hard, and the blood rushes in his ears. “You didn’t tell them?” he asks, too softly. His voice comes out as a whisper, forced out through his constricted throat. 

He’s not looking at anyone, but Steve knows who he’s talking to. He _knows_. 

(“Did you know?”)

There’s no immediate answer. 

(“I didn’t know it was him.”)

The others start getting disquieted now, too. Nervous, almost, darting glances between themselves, not quite knowing what to expect. 

(“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. _Did you know?_ ”)

Steve won’t look him in the eye. 

(“Yes.”)

“You didn’t,” Tony says, and he really doesn’t know why he’s hoped for something different. “You really didn’t tell them what—” He cuts himself off before his voice has the chance to break. 

“I gotta to get out of here. Excuse me.”

This time, he keeps his composure until the doors of the back entrance swing closed behind him. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody got punched, yay. 
> 
> but, you know, Happy's still in there, and Pepper too, and who knows what happens now that Tony's left? :D


	4. dew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, i’m am going to completely ignore infinity war here, just because i actually do not plan on watching in the near (or hell, even far) future. i’ve got enough stuff on my hands without yet another thing to worry about. 
> 
> heh.  
> eh. i’m not sure about this chapter, but here you are. enjoy

Tony’s smoking at the back entrance when he thinks about calling her. The girl. About finally admitting the truth to someone that isn’t either bound by contract not to talk about anything Tony’s said to them, or his family, the small rest of it that he’s _sure_ will not betray his trust.

And even they don’t know the whole, terrible truth.

They can guess at it, sure, but they can’t _know_ , because they’re not always there with him when it happens; because it will take him a long fucking time to feel comfortable admitting to being weak, to let himself be caught off guard by anyone ever again.

So he doesn’t. He keeps his wits about him, even if it means forgoing one or two hours of sleep every night; even if he has to bite down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, just so he doesn’t give in to the temptation.

He keeps his fingers away from his phone, even if he can’t forget her number.

Will not drag her down with him.

 

And the smoke curls around him; gets ripped from his lips and fingers by a faint breeze, and not for the first time, Tony wishes he could be carried away with it. Wishes, desperately, that he didn’t have so many things anchoring him here, so many responsibilities, his moral standard just high enough that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself were he to leave now, wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of having given up, leaving all these people at the mercy of the ‘Avengers’, Ross, a broken-up SHIELD, and blood-thirsty politicians. Wishes that he didn’t have to breathe in acrid smoke in order to drive away the snow and blood and ashes, the heat and sand and brackish water. In order to forget, just for a moment.

And then he wishes he weren’t so broken, weren’t so old—nearing fifty, _goddamn it_ —, weren’t so tired, that he could just do more, let less people die, or better yet, just stop the dying altogether. Break the laws of nature, and all that.

 

And then he remembers—because _how could he forget?_ —that these human problems aren’t such a concern for him any more, and isn’t that nice?

Isn’t it nice? He doesn’t have to worry about half this stuff, technically, because most of it doesn’t affect him anymore, _can’t_ , but honestly, it’s just one of those things he’d rather forget, that he wishes would dissipate as easily as smoke.

 

He’s still so very exhausted, in mind if not body; and he spreads his arms, closes his eyes, one last deep breath, and he lets his suit wrap around him the moment his cigarette has burned down to the filter, _ashes to ashes_ , and taken all his wishes with it.

He just wants to go home right now, even if that word no longer implies the comfortable safety that it has, once. No more warmth and camaraderie, no pranks and movie nights, no easy trust.

It feels like another life.

 

It is. Was.

Because now there’s just cold and silence. Ice-filled veins and hatred.

 

And Tony _wishes_.

Knows that the universe isn’t exactly known to be kind to him.

 

***

 

Bucky laughs.

 

It’s not nice and it isn’t real. Nothing feels real anymore. He keeps expecting to wake up and find himself back in a HYDRA basement, gleeful faces staring down at him because finally, they’ve found a new torture method that _really_ gets to him.

He keeps expecting to be doused in cold water and fired up with the electric shocks of the Chair, the pain to be blinding, the agony all-encompassing.

It just. Doesn’t happen.

Not after the fight in DC, not after Siberia. Not after finding himself clinging to Steve and the last thread of his sane mind in Wakanda. Not after deciding to be put back in cryo, and not after being woken again, because apparently, as Barton put it ‘ _that asshole Stark finally got his head outta his ass and away from the bottle long enough to feel guilty and let us come back_ ’.

(Bucky doesn’t think it happened like this, but he’s no one to talk so he just nods and keeps quiet. He’s gotten good at that, since the forties.)

No. It doesn’t even happen when there are Satin bedsheets underneath his fingertips every morning even though he knows he’s never touched, let alone owned, something so precious in his whole life. He wakes up, and it’s not to pain, but to _this_. And he surely doesn’t deserve it.

 

So, Bucky laughs when Natasha asks him if he needs anything. A moment ago, the Rogue Avengers were slouched all over the common room, now every muscle’s tense, their gazes fixated on him as if he’s a bomb about to go off. And hell, he knows he is. _Oh_ , he knows.

But that doesn’t stop him from laughing, though, rather on the contrary. And he can read the expression on each face, can tell that they’re just waiting for the Winter Soldier to burst forth because they _still_ haven’t understood that there is no Winter Soldier. No separated personality. Just him.

And this, he deserves. The mistrust, the wariness, the fear. It’s just surprising that they don’t hate him yet.

“Bucky…” Steve begins tentatively, his hand slowly inching towards the small vial of sedative he keeps in his belt and thinks that Bucky doesn’t know of, and ‘Bucky’ just wants to snarl at him. He doesn’t, though, and only laughs louder.

His ribs are starting to hurt, and his lungs are straining. His heart beats far too fast in his chest and he thinks that if he doesn’t get out of here in the next minute he’ll — break, shatter, implode.

Something.

_Anything_.

And it will end in disaster.

 

His breath catches and his eyes sting.

There’s blood pooling into the palm of his hand where his fingernails bite into the soft flesh. The wounds will be gone in a couple of minutes, but the blood not.

The blood will always stay.

The pain is supposed to let him know that he, too, lost something, but day by day, it gets harder to believe. He’s still here and all these other people aren’t.

It’s all too much and not nearly enough. He doesn’t know how to deal, doesn’t know how to breathe, how in the world this was once something that came naturally to him.

 

The blood drips.

 

And then there’s Stark, completely unaware of the tension in the air, or deliberately choosing to ignore it, waltzing into the room, saying “Did I hear pizza? I thought I heard pizza. Does anyone want pizza? I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

 

It’s always Stark.

 

Bucky abruptly stands up, the laughter long since having faded to echoes.

“I’m hungry,” he says, gruff enough that he almost doesn’t understand himself, but it seems to be enough for Stark who beams and promptly whirls around, leaving the room as quickly as he came in, in front of Bucky and with his back exposed.

Bucky knows a dozen ways to kill a man with his bare hands in under five seconds, and Stark just. leaves his back. to him.

It doesn’t seem possible.

The tension in Stark’s body says it almost isn’t, and once they are outside of the Rogue Avengers’ sight and hearing range, the smile drops from his face and the chatter about pizza toppings cuts off.

“So,” Stark begins, but Bucky interrupts him. “Thank you,” he says. “That was—you didn’t have to—I know I don’t—”

“Don’t worry about it, Buckaroo. I only acted in the best of both of our interests. I won’t stand for having to buy new furniture, again. That stuff is _expensive_.”

Well, that’s good to know. “Sorry,” Bucky says and turns back around, heading for the elevator.

“I—no, Barnes, I didn’t mean—Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

Bucky is on the verge of denying it, but then his stomach growls and reminds him that _yes_ , he is in fact hungry, hasn’t really eaten anything since that disastrous ‘family dinner’ last week and yeah—somehow, he tends to forget that, and that, at the very least, is something that shows the progress he’s been making, the way he loses some of his Winter Soldier instincts, because eating has always been something vital, something to make sure he doesn’t loose his strength, to keep on being functional in order to…

Now, he wouldn’t mind losing it, just enough to ensure even a six-year-old girl could hold him back in case he’d get triggered.

Not like little Joanna Veril, who had the unfortunate luck to be born as the daughter of Gerald Veril, one of those people that somehow crossed into HYDRA’s path of fire without really trying, and he can still remember her small voice, curious at first, then doubtful. Frightened, desperate, deathly quiet.

And then it’s not his own blood sticking to his hand, but Joanna Veril’s, and that of her sister and her father, her fucking _dog_. And Bucky’s kinda tempted to break his own fingers, just to make sure he can’t hurt someone else like that for at least twenty-four hours, and then there’s Stark in his face, and he looks like his father, like Howard Stark, and Bucky still remembers the sound of—

 

Stark slaps him. Hard.

Bucky blinks.

 

There’s no animalistic instinct rising to the surface at that, neither fight nor flight, nor something else entirely. Just. Quiet. Stillness.

 

Bucky doesn’t know who’s more surprised when nothing happens, him or Stark.

 

“Oh my God,” Stark says, lowly, takes a step back. “Oh my God, I should not just have done that.”

He doesn’t seem to be speaking to Bucky, rubbing a hand over his face in an almost resigned way, but Bucky doesn’t mind.

 

His cheek’s stinging, just a little. May have been the ring Stark wears on his left hand.

Other than the stinging, he can feel the healing process starting, the way he always can when he pays attention to it, white blood cells congregating, skin knitting itself back together, bruises forming and fading quickly enough so you can watch the process, like a flower blooming and wilting.

Other than _that_ , he knows that Stark succeeded in his mission; pulling him from his own thoughts, and the freak-out that may have followed on the tail-ends of that. Which is definitely a nice gesture.

 

“Wow,” Stark says, after a while. “I mean, I knew you were enhanced, too, but I don’t exactly pack a light punch. How the hell do you not—react?”

Then, his eyes widen, just when Bucky receives the little pulse of electrical nerve-signal that tells him he’s finished healing. He lifts his hand, slowly enough so as to not seem threatening, and wipes the few droplets of blood away. The stinging’s disappeared, and Bucky knows his skin will not even have the pinkish tinge of newly formed tissue to it, now.

He carefully observes Stark’s reaction, knowing, sharply, how other people have reacted when they realized just how true the rumors of his enhanced healing were. He is _not_ keen on getting his pinky finger cut off yet again.

The way Stark’s eyes light up, though, leaves him instantly wary of the man; not that he wasn’t already before. The guy’s a mystery, and Bucky knows better than to trust anything his old teammates have to say about him. He’s much _more_ than anyone cares to admit.

 

“Well, that’s certainly different from your Super Soldier buddy in there,” is the only thing Stark says, in the end, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder and in the general direction of the common room. “But, we’re getting off topic here. Pizza was the thing. We were getting pizza. Right, FRIDAY, baby-girl? Weren’t we getting pizza?”

And he’s rambling again, fingers fiddling with a cigarette he’s pulled out from _somewhere_ (and Bucky doesn’t like to think about how he didn’t notice that; the movement of a hand into a pocket, at least, somewhere he could have easily hidden a knife or a gun, where he could have gone from _genius playboy billionaire_ to _threat_ in a manner of seconds), generally giving off all kinds of signals that kind of make Bucky’s head hurt. It’s almost like the man’s screaming at him, desperately, to _let me get the fuck out of here, I don’t want to be here, not with you, I don’t trust you and you killed my parents, but I feel kind of guilty for ripping your arm off and I can’t be mean to you because you’re a fucking international spy slash assassin slash HYDRA goon and I’m fucking terrified of you, so I’m just trying to get dinner with you, screw all logic and common sense_.

It’s loud screaming, jagged and jumping from one thing to the other, fast enough to make Bucky’s head spin, make his heart squeeze in his chest and he really doesn’t like it. There’s nothing for his body to heal because there’s nothing physically wrong with him, and that’s somehow even worse than if Stark really did pull a knife from his pocket and decide to test that small-limb-regrowing theory.

Bucky swallows, and his voice grates in his throat when he says, “You don’t have to do that.”

Stark is only momentarily stopped in his tracks, halting for a second to stare at Bucky, and then he’s taking up pace again, “No, no, it’s no problem, I mean, we’ve already got that far, right, and I can’t have you go hungry, or someone might think I don’t treat my guests right, and we can’t have that now—”

“I’m not your guest,” Bucky cuts in, before he can think on it. It’s not the first time since defrosting that this kind of reckless emotion took momentary control, but what with how roughly it comes out it’s definitely the first time somebody other than himself felt threatened by it.

Stark flinches, minutely, but enough so that Bucky catches it. He stops breathing, waits on the retaliation, tension strung high.

“What—what are you talking about?” Stark has to clear his throat to get the sentence out, and the hand with the cigarette’s shaking.

“I’m,” Bucky starts, swallows, “I don’t deserve to be your guest. Hell, I should be your prisoner. I killed your parents, Stark,” — Bucky tries not to let it get to him, how Stark shrinks away from him at that, because really, he’s provoking it, _wants_ that kind of reaction, for him to see reason, but _still_ — “And I don’t fucking understand how the hell it happened that we’re all back here like we didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just, I don’t get it. It doesn’t make _sense_. None of us are _innocent_.”

Bucky can’t look the other man in the eye. So he doesn’t.

It’s easier that way, even if he know that that makes him a coward, even if the Soldier in him vehemently protests against that idea. ( _It’s_ not _easier, because if you don’t look at the man, you don’t see the moment he starts pulling his gun, his gauntlet, when he gets ready to fucking shoot you in the face for what you did to him.)_ Okay, it’s not just the Soldier-part of him thinking that way; it’s his whole being. As far as he remembers, there was never a moment when it wasn’t dangerous not to look at the people that could off you in a heartbeat.

But he _can’t_.

 

“No, you’re not,” Stark states, coldly. Calmly. His eyes are flat now, all traces of humor, of nervousness and anxious energy gone, wiped from his features and body language. “But you’re still human. You, most of all, despite what you might think. I _know_ that, now. And I don’t really get the impression that you got to experience much of that, lately. At least not in the last decade. So please, for my conscience, just let me do this one thing, eat a pizza with you, and then, maybe, we can have a real serious talk about all the consequences that you seem so determined to be facing alone. Maybe you can even convince the Rogues to just fucking listen to me for once, hold off with the insulting, so they can’t blame me afterwards for whatever goes wrong. Right? Great.” And then Stark looks at him, squints, calculating. “I have no fucking clue why, but you strike me as the type to have pineapple on pizza.”

Bucky feels his eyes go round, because _that’s_ a memory he didn’t realize he had, and it’s not a bad or painful one. Despite how the day started out, it might actually turn into one of his better ones. “That’s still a thing?”

Stark grins, and damn, but _this_ , Bucky knows, is the one obvious thing that _has_ changed for the better since he last had the freedom to think such thoughts. The man’s beautiful, even exhausted as he is, with rings under his eyes that look like bruises. Like the very bruises left behind on Howard’s throat and face after—

“I knew it! At some point, that’s _so_ gonna win me a bet. Thanks for that, Buckster. So, uh, FRIDAY?”

“Already taken care of, boss.”

Stark’s grin only widens at the sound of the Irish voice. “Awesome, you’re doing great, baby girl.” A light under one of the cameras installed in the room flickers a bright green before going out, and somehow, Bucky knows that Stark just has been sassed. And loved. So _loved_.

No wonder the AI doesn’t seem to particularly like the team, after all the shit they’ve been talking about Stark behind his back, but never away from FRIDAY’s ears; elevator doors just inconveniently closing in their faces, shower water coming only too hot or too cold, microwaves that make their food explode occasionally… the list goes on and on, and Bucky can’t help the smile, too, now.

It feels strange on his face, unfamiliar, like using muscles he didn’t quite realize he had ( _that’s a lie, you know_ every _muscle in your body and you know just what it takes to make each of them_ hurt).

Stranger still, though, is the feeling in his chest, just under the curve of his ribs, the warmth that’s spreading with tentative tendrils, like the sun reaching through the clouds after a particularly vicious rainstorm, and Bucky knows that the Soldier will mock him relentlessly for thinking in such terms, but hey, he’s really learned to appreciate the simple beauty of words, poetry as an escape from a much crueler world.

And he knows that that’s a part of him that’s neither Bucky nor Winter Soldier, and it’s one of those few little things that’s been giving him the hope that maybe, it’s possible to get through this, reach the other side, and come out okay. Somehow. Damaged maybe, but alive. Living. On the other hand, there are many days where he doubts the possibility of it, where he finds himself thinking back to fights, and wishing he’d just dodged that bullet a little bit later, or maybe not reached out to break his fall, or, or, or… where he just hadn’t made it back. It would certainly be easier.

For all of them.

Mostly Stark, though, because now that there’s no excuse left to be conversing with his AI he’s pacing again, restlessly, up and down, to the left and right, and Bucky finds himself saying “You’re going to wear a hole in that carpet, and then where are we?”

Stark stops, turns his head, looks at Bucky with narrowed eyes, then scoffs and says, “Please, Frosty, I’ve designed this tower, people have always known who’s going to live in here, do you really think they would not have taken care to make _everything_ failsafe _and_ foolproof? Even if they have to go and find indestructible pieces of floor covering?”

It’s tempting, oh so tempting, to say something to that, but Bucky decides to keep his mouth shut. Not that it seems to accomplish very much, since, apparently, he has lost some serious control over his facial expressions, because Stark can easily guess what he’s thinking with just a look at him. He raises a finger, makes as if to poke Bucky in the chest with it, but aborts the movement in the last second.

“I can hear what you’re thinking, Mister, and that’s not very nice. I’m not even a super human, you can’t expect me to hold up to a freaking _Norse_ _God_. Believe me, we don’t make carpets strong enough to withhold the pacing of a green-glowing alien God. Yet. But it may be worth a thought, don’t you think?”

Bucky just rolls his eyes; that’s a side Stark brings out in him, and it’s so relieving to know he’s capable of mustering up enough personality for sarcasm, if not anything else. “Yes, absolutely. Because there’s going to be _such_ a market for it, so many people that need carpets to—how did you put it?—withhold the pacing of a green-glowing alien God? Yes, that’s a real concern of the Modern people.”

There’s a light in Stark’s eyes Bucky didn’t realize he’s missed, he takes a breath and opens his mouth, saying “ _James Buchanan Barnes_ ,” as if he’s about to launch into a rant about the importance of God-safe rugs, but Bucky stops listening after the first word.

The crushing feeling in his chest worsens, heart skipping a beat, and, then, something clicks. The weight lifts, like a shackles taken from around his wrists and ankles that he hadn’t even noticed anymore, too used to wearing them, to the constant pain. And now it’s like, for the first time, he gets a taste of the freedom everyone’s always been talking about. Like something that’s finally, finally starting to make sense.

“Yes,” Bucky whispers. “Yes.”

Stark stops, his sweeping gesture cutting short. “What?”

“James,” Bucky says, testing it out. “Yes.” It fits, and even the Soldier’s presence at the back of his mind seems to agree, relaxing.

“Uh,” Stark says, nose wrinkled. He chews on his lower lip for a second, eyes darting up to the ceiling where James knows one of FRIDAY’s cameras is hidden. Stark rubs the palms of his hands together, startled to find he’s still holding his cigarette. He looks at it, contemplating, then catches James’ eye and repeats, “What?”

“It’s my _name_ ,” James says, like it’s any sort of revelation, like it’s obvious and _how could he not have seen that before?_

“I mean, yeah, sure, but didn’t you know that already? I’m sure Rogers told you who—”

“No,” James interrupts him, “Yes. He told me—all about it, him, but I’m—I’m not that guy anymore. Not _Bucky_. But I didn’t know who else—”

“Who you are?” Stark guesses. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Somewhat. You’re not someone else, exactly, but you’re not _him_ anymore, right? And James _is_ a nice enough name.”

James could have kissed him. Which is most definitely a notion left over from Bucky; the Soldier in him just rolls his eyes and huffs, simply glad to have at least one crisis averted. After all, it’s only one of many just waiting to happen.

“Yes!” James says. “I am, but I’m not, and I couldn’t explain—he wouldn’t listen to me, when I tried to—”

“Yeah,” Stark looks wistful, just for a moment. “I know exactly what you mean. He’s a stubborn little bastard, that guy, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” James wants to say, all over again, but there’s FRIDAY’s voice interrupting him, and she sounds so much friendlier right now, it’s hard to believe it’s the same person—program as before. “Pizza’s here, boss. I suggest you ingest it before it’s getting cold.”

“Good idea, FRI,” Stark says without batting an eye.

James doesn’t have that much self control, especially not _now_ , and he can’t stop the grimace from forming on his face. “ _Ingest_? Really? Why would you—can’t you just use a word like ‘eat’? A normal one, one that doesn’t steal half of my appetite?”

There’s silence. Then, with a _ding!_ , the elevator doors open to reveal three cartons of pizza, and somehow, James is sure that even that _ding!_ sounded a lot more approving than the last time he’s had to use it. Or maybe he’s just going crazy, which probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone.

But then again, he’s pretty sure Stark’s turning away in order to hide a smile behind the back of his hand, and that’s.

Huh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soo… meet ‘Bucky’, James, the Soldier?  
> honestly, i'm totally claiming artistic license here, because i don't actually have a plan for classifying Bucky's mental state, nor for anything concerning his healing abilities. i'm pretty much going by what feels right for me, more or less creating this story after what i like and want to read in other stories ;D 
> 
> Two questions;  
> one, how did you like that chapter? okay, too much, confusing, stupid?
> 
> two, I’ve been thinking… would you guys rather like smaller chapters coming more frequently or are you okay with the longer wait and longer chapters? 
> 
>  
> 
> thank you all so much for reading and leaving kudos and comments. i appreciate it all so much and i will really try to make some space in my schedule for answering them all.  
> (in case you're interested in what else i get up to in my free time, feel free to visit me on instagram [@kuenschtlerisch](https://www.instagram.com/kuenschtlerisch/) (yes, that's shameless self-promoting, idc))  
> <3


	5. ham and pineapple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was a plan, once, for how this fic was supposed to play out, how Tony and James would get to know each other. This is something else entirely and, somehow, I’m not even sorry. I just hope it’s not too weird and lengthy, and that you like it still.  
> Thanks for all your amazing comments on the last chapter and enjoy this one!
> 
> (and enjoy the fluff while it lasts.)  
> (if you can call this fluff, wow.)  
> (me talking about fluff does not mean much, I just noticed. the warnings about discussion of abuse, murder, torture, and all these horrible things do apply here. there’s that SERIOUS conversation going on.)  
> (and pizza. don’t forget the pizza)
> 
> okay, I stop rambling now. enjoy the read, let me know what you think…

“James—” _Buchanan Barnes, you_ — Tony starts and wants to go on, but he can’t, because there’s Barnes, his shoulders sagging like his strings just got cut loose, his face going slack, just for a second, _relief and freedom_ , and yeah, no, Tony really shouldn’t start thinking in those terms, shouldn’t start to draws these connections, because _Ultron is gone_.

Shouldn’t be here, doing this, at all, but it seems like all reason stops makes sense after twenty-eight hours in the workshop, especially when you’re craving pizza, human contact, a cigarette or six.

But he can’t really back out now, not after he’s already committed to it, after he’s deliberately let the chance pass to do run and hide. Also, the thing is, he doesn’t _want_ to. He’s good where he is right now, with Barnes, and pizza in the future. He can’t quite remember the last time he’s felt so _calm_.

It’s strange.

And stranger still, the clench of concern in his heart at the look on Barnes’ face right now. That… anguish, agony, wonder. Like seeing the light of day after weeks spent in a cave, like water after heat and sand, _family_ after hate and betrayal.

_Yes_ , Tony thinks, _I understand_.

 

-

 

They don’t eat the pizza in the hallway in front of the common rooms, of course. There’s a moment of doubt, though, and Tony hesitates to take James up to his penthouse, not only because it’s one of the few places where he still feels _safe_ , but—

“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” James asks, successfully interrupting Tony’s internal debate.

He blinks, frowns. “Nice out? Isn’t it like, three in the morning?”

James’ face is blank, for a heartbeat or two, then there’s a small, secret smile curling at the curve of his lips. “So that’s why you were up here, then,” he mumbles, as if to himself, shakes his head, and lets the smile bloom when he looks back at Tony. “No, Mr. Stark. It’s actually two in the afternoon, the sun’s out, and it’s, like, twenty-five degree Celsius. Russia fucked with my head, I have no idea how to convert that back to Fahrenheit.”

Before Tony even gets the chance to marvel at how casually James brings up his time as HYRDA’s assassin pet, FRIDAY’s here, voice chirpy as she says, “That would be eighty degrees Fahrenheit, Sergeant Barnes, as the current temperature is at twenty-seven degrees Celsius. And, if you please, boss doesn’t like being addressed as Mister Stark. Just call him Tony.”

Tony gapes, can’t believe this. _The cheek!_ “I—what—that’s—”

He doesn’t even get to finish that mess of a sentence, because James chuckles, softly, and says, “Deal. But only if you don’t call me that, either. I’m no Sergeant. Call me James.” And the wonder in his eyes as he says that alone would have been enough to make Tony speechless, so, really, you can’t fault him for standing there like that famous deer caught in headlights.

His creation is conspiring against him and he can’t even do anything to stop her. Doesn’t want to, honestly. He could watch her do this all day every day. She’s growing and evolving, making him prouder every day and he _loves_ her.

Eventually, he gets snapped out of his stupor by FRIDAY saying something about the pizza going cold, and then James reminds him that it’s _not_ three in the morning and therefore perfectly reasonable to eat out on the balcony.

So.

That’s what they do.

 

It seems so easy.

And Tony’s perfectly aware of the fact that it’s not.

That it’s anything but.

That, only minutes ago, he barely prevented himself from having a panic attack, that he _turned his back on James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes, and,_ dear God _, he really does have a death wish._ But Barnes didn’t kill him, didn’t try to hurt him, and really, the only thing that’s happened is that he now gets to call him James.

 

So.

Tony’s got that cigarette lit the moment they step out on the balcony, James in front of him this time.

Tony wonders if it’s as bad for James as it was for him. The knowledge that you _don’t know_ what’s going on behind your back, what they’re planning to do.

He thinks it might be; remembers all these times Barnes put his back to the corners, in the position where he could best observe the room at large, where no one would be able to creep up on him. Remembers how often he’s seen him reach for a weapon, whether he actually had one or not, just because something startled him, because he’s been caught unawares, or just for no visible reason at all.

 

So—

 

So.

Tony doesn’t know what to do with all that, so he does what he does best; hide himself behind a handy addiction, plaster on a smile and act as if nothing’s the matter. As if this is a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence, and absolutely nothing world-shattering happened.

It’s always more difficult to convince himself of these facts than anyone else.

The smoke provides a nice distraction, though, the faint menthol smell just artificial enough to make it impossible to mistake it for an entirely different kind of smoke.

“Didn’t you want to eat?” James asks, pulls him from his thoughts. Just in time, probably, before Tony’s mind has the chance to drift off into even more dangerous waters.

Again, Tony finds himself unable to provide a coherent response on his first try. “I, uh, yes? I mean, yeah, why do you ask?”

James shrugs, settles himself in one of the plastic terrace chairs in one fluid motion, and pulls one of the pizza cartons into his lap in the same movement. “Just because. I thought I read somewhere that smoking kind of—blocks your appetite, don’t remember the word they used exactly, but it’s like, makes you less hungry. So, I was just thinking maybe you shouldn’t smoke just before eating? But that’s, like, just a thought, I mean, I’m no one to tell you what to do, of course, just—”

Tony can’t help the smile, can’t help just _breathing_ _out_ , and letting all his tension go with it. He puts out his cigarette in an ashtray when he lets himself sink into the opposite chair. “No, no, you’re absolutely right. I wasn’t really thinking about it like that, but yeah. I should really eat something.”

“How long’s it been?” James asks, the first slice of pizza already halfway gone. He doesn’t seems so anxious anymore, doesn’t fidget that much. Instead there’s something in his voice, something almost… curious, and, somehow, Tony has a hard time to wrap his head around all that.

He blinks when James clears his throat, backtracks in their conversation. (And wow, isn’t that a thought? He’s having an entirely civilized conversation with the Winter Soldier. Or whatever remains of him, at least.) “How long has it been since what?”

“You last ate.”

And _that_ startles him enough that he doesn’t even think before the words start tumbling from his lips. “Oh, uh, let me think. What day is it? Today, I mean.”

There’s disbelief on James’ face, a hint of incredulity. Almost immediately, the expression disappears again, though, wiped away by either instinct, conditioning, or James’ futile attempt to look stern. “It’s Thursday, twenty-sixth of June, about two-thirty in the afternoon. Please tell me you’ve eaten today.”

Tony shakes his head, thinking, “No, no, I think it was Tuesday, maybe. An omelet for breakfast? FRIDAY, is that—”

“Correct, boss. And a glass of orange juice to drink, if you don’t count all the coffee in-between.”

James blinks at him, motionless, fifth pizza slice halfway to his mouth. “That’s—”

“Perfectly unhealthy? Yeah, thank you, I’ve had that pointed out to me several times.” He clears his throat, averts his eyes, but something compels him not to stop here, as he would have done with literally everyone else. “It’s just—I tend to forget.”

“You… forget. To feed yourself?”

Tony shrugs. “It happens.”

“But it shouldn’t!”

“Mhhh.” Tony doesn’t really have an answer to that. It’s not like James is wrong, in particular. There’s just nothing to be done about it.

“Mhmm,” James agrees, and. That’s it. He nudges Tony’s pizza carton a little closer to him, and goes back to devouring his own. That’s it.

And Tony breathes out and reaches for his own first slice.

 

The silence that now settles between them isn’t exactly uncomfortable, rather on the opposite. It’s _nice_. Just to sit and think and eat. No pressure, no expectations. Just… be. Exist. No questions, no demands, no lingering, judging looks.

It’s a good kind of silence, and Tony can freely admit that he doesn’t have a lot of those.

So, of course, it doesn’t last.

James’ pizza carton is empty, Tony’s comes close.

There’s another one sitting between them.

And James breaks the silence.

“We said we’d talk about it, so I’m going to talk about it now,” he says, and he seems to know Tony well enough so as to not allow him the chance to interrupt and/or protest. “And I’m gonna be blunt. I don’t like it, being here.

“Not because I’m at your mercy, or whatever you’d call it, but more like, I feel like I don’t deserve it. Any of it. The happiness, the security, the _home_. There’s no place for me here. I burden you, I make you feel scared to sleep in your own bed, don’t even try to deny it, and hell, you can’t even come into your own kitchen in order to make yourself something to eat, goddamn it. And I’d bet you only came up into the common areas today because you thought it was three in the morning, nobody would be there, and then it was too late. Or maybe you heard me freaking out and just didn’t want to pay for another set of furniture. Which you really shouldn’t have to do in the first place.

“Why do you allow us to be here when you could have us evicted at a moment’s notice for presenting a danger to you and your employees just a few floors down? Why do you allow us to be here when Barton fucking hit you out of nowhere, and the man’s supposed to be a grown up, supposed to be groveling at your feet for making him able to come back into the US in the first place, for fuck’s sake? Why do you allow us to be here when you could have just as well let each of us handle our own messes? You don’t need us here. You are not responsible for us, and especially not for our actions. We’ve given you absolutely no reason to even _want_ us here. I don’t understand it and I don’t like it and I—I don’t know. I hate the uncertainty.

“Look, I’d really just rather you put an end to it, to me. I understand why you might object to that, but—Gods, this is one of my good days, can you believe it? It’s one of these days where I feel like, like there’s still a person in here, like maybe, at some point, I’ll have a future. But even at my best days I’m still a god-damned mess, I’m fucking dangerous, and I just— _I don’t understand_. How can you do this all, Stark? How can you sit here, look me in the eye, and not want to kill me for what I did to your parents—to hundreds of others just like them? Why don’t you just finish what you started, back in Siberia? I’m—I’m not the good guy here, not the victim, I don’t deserve—” James voice breaks, eventually, finally, but by the looks of it, he fully intends to push on, pull through, and Tony just—can’t have that.

“No, _no_ , stop right there.” James stops, takes a breath, takes his time to blink, but then his gaze unwaveringly holds Tony’s, and that’s the stuff nightmares are made of, folks, seeing all that anger and regret, the guilt and shame, the pure self-loathing reflected in those steely grey eyes, the resignation and acceptance, the will to do anything just to make this world a little bit righter, a little bit fairer, easier on _Tony_. ( _And really, it’s that last bit that takes the cake, because Tony wouldn’t know easy if it jumped him in the face._ )

“You _are_ the victim, James,” Tony’s voice is steadier than he would have thought possible, but there’s not a single bit of doubt about that in his mind, so that might make it easier. He doesn’t blink when James flinches at that, he just keep holding his gaze, trying to make him see what he has seen, eventually, even if it was a realization that’s come too late, in the end. “You are. Believe me, I _know_ that it’s not easy to admit to that. But you’ll only be able to heal, to move on, when you face the truth head-on. And that’s the thing: you are a victim, James. A prisoner of war, you’ve been tortured, mind-fucked with, used as a weapon without will, _against_ your will, and you’re a god-damned survivor. You didn’t have a choice in all of this.

“I know you think it was your fault, all of it, that if only you were stronger, braver, more determined, that you could have prevented all these horrible things from happening, but that’s. not. the. case. That’s the PTSD talking, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as they’re calling it today. It’s real. It’s brutal. Some days you might think it’s going to be the end of you. But none if it was your fault, and there’s no one who could have handled it any better than you. I know you don’t believe me. And I also know that you probably won’t believe me when I tell you that I’ve forgiven you. Long ago, really. Or, okay, at least I’ve forgiven you for being the one to kill my parents. I realized that I was wrong—or, well, my therapist told me so in no uncertain terms, and really. Anyone could have pulled the trigger, but you were only the gun. You are not to blame for this. Okay? Yes? Then let’s not let that pizza go cold, yeah?”

And James stares back at him, face pale and blank, but then he takes a breath, reaches for the pizza. Tony doesn’t mention how he notices his hand shaking. (His own shakes too, when he lets his fingers brush the back of James’ hand as he reaches for a piece of pizza on his own.)

 

It takes a lot, out of both of them, but it’s better, after, it really is. The silence is heavy, but it’s a good heavy, like a warm blanket, if you want to go thinking about it in these terms, rather than some oppressive force.

It seems too easy, still, but if Tony’s honest with himself, then he has to admit that this is still more than anything he’s ever had with the Rogue Avengers. More trust, more honesty, more comfort.

It shouldn’t be possible, but, somehow, it is.

 

It not over, not by a long shot. But, maybe, Tony thinks, this is the first step on a long, winding road.

 

-

 

And then Tony finally realizes what’s been bothering him all this time, just at the edge of his consciousness, but now that he’s relaxed enough for the buzz in his thoughts to quiet down a bit, it seems obvious like … well, a missing arm.

The pizza cartons lay in a messy heap on the small patio table, they’ve both got their feet comfortably tucked in under themselves, both lost in their own thoughts. Maybe. Tony is, at least. But now that he’s noticed he can’t stop noticing, can’t stop his eyes from drifting back to James’ empty sleeve, and eventually his poor impulse control wins and he just blurts out with it.

“So, uh, if you don’t mind me asking… like, what’s wrong with your arm? ‘Cause, like, you know, I’m kinda the tech guy here, comes with the genius part, I fix things, so, maybe…?”

 

***

 

“What?” James blinks, narrows his eyes, tries to follow Stark’s line of thought. “Oh, no, the arm’s fine.”

“But then, uh… where is it?”

James shrugs. “Took it off.”

“Why.” Stark doesn’t even try to make it a question.

James shrugs again, running the pad of his thumb over the rough texture of his chair’s armrest. “Dunno. I’d been having a good day, y’know, no nightmares for once, and I didn’t really want to risk ruining it? I don’t know. It seemed safer that way.” He laughs a little, self-deprecating. “And look at how that turned out.”

Stark blinks at him, a thousand questions burning hot in his eyes. Still, James has to give it to him: he doesn’t pry, doesn’t demand instant answers, respects that answer as good enough and breaks their eye contact, obviously looking for something else to concentrate on, something to quell his curiosity with.

James has to fight with himself not to smirk, and in the end, he loses willingly. Leans back into the (surprisingly comfortable) chair, tugs at a loose strand of fabric in his pants, and says, “Don’t strain yourself, doll. Ask away.”

Stark’s reaction is immediate; his head whips back up to stare at him, wide eyed, and then, after a second, pure glee starts blossoming on his face. “Really?”

“Sure,” James says, doesn’t shrug. “Yeah.”

“Okay, wow. I mean, I knew Wakanda’s got great scientists, of course, but I—honestly, it didn’t even occur to me to make it removable, but that’s something I’m sure I could still fix, and then maybe—”

“Whoa, wait, what? What do you want to fix? I thought you were going to ask—”

“Oh.” Stark suddenly appears sheepish, pulling his gaze away from where it’s been fixated on James’ empty sleeve, and he rubs his neck as though trying to wipe away his blush. “I—You know how it is, with the guilt. I mean, I was the one to rip your arm off in the first place, and it’s not like I really thought I’d get a chance to apologize for that, so, uh. It was therapeutic, really. Something to get my mind off of things.”

“You _built_ me an arm?” James’ voice is incredulous. “After—after all I’ve done to you?”

“Shh, no, we just talked about that. You’re forgiven. It’s not forgotten, but, you’re forgiven. It was really not your fault.”

James can’t help the frustrated noise that escapes his throat. “But you don’t—Why does nobody understand? It _was_ me, no matter what Steve might try to tell you. There’s—no second personality, no separate Winter Soldier or something like that. It was _me_. Sure, HYDRA fucked with my head and all, and I still can’t really remember who I am, most times, but it’s just me. There’s no one else to blame.”

James can’t believe he’s even thinking it, but—Stark looks ready to leap over the table to slap his hand over James’ mouth, so he just decides to do it himself rather than provoke just that reaction.

Stark takes a deep breath, and then he says, “Alright. Not what I expected, but okay. That’s good to know, I guess. Doesn’t mean I blame you now, though. I’ve made my peace with it, as much I can make peace with anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have no idea how to respond to that, but, uh…” Stark rubs at his temples as though he’s trying to fight off a headache, and then he stills, suddenly. “You know what? Fuck it. Wanna come to IKEA with me? Maybe you can pick up some things, help you settle better in your own skin, not the man Steve still sees you as, and not the one HYDRA made into their puppet. Just James, yeah?”

“I—” James starts, stops. “Didn’t you want to ask me about my arm and—Why would you want me to—What’s IKEA?” _What does it stand for,_ he wonders _. Intelligence Killing Emergency Agency? International Karma Enforcement Agency? What do they do?_

James isn’t sure why, but somehow he doubts that Stark would ask nicely if it was anything like SHIELD.

“You don’t know what—Of course, I’m sorry.” Stark grimaces a little, shakes his head. “It’s Ingvar Kamprad Elmtaryd Agunnaryd, a Swedish home furnishings retailer, or, in other words, paradise.”

“But—” James tries, clenches his fist. “Isn’t that like, outside the Tower?”

Stark doesn’t even have to ask what he’s talking about, this time. “Yes. But you’d be with me, and I’d take my armor with me. It’s probably going to be fine.”

He doesn’t sound so sure. “Probably?” James echoes.

Stark shrugs, a crooked smile on his face, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his leg. “Probably,” he confirms.

James doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing anymore. Somehow, he doesn’t really mind. It’s different. Nice. He hasn’t seen much of the future since he’s been woken up, and if he’s honest with himself, he would really like to see more. The confinement in the Tower has made him restless, and more than once already he’s considered just saying _fuck it_ and breaking out. He hasn’t gone through with it, of course. His conscience wouldn’t have been able to stand it, and the _what-ifs_ have always been too numerous. But now?

“Okay,” James says.

“Okay?” Stark asks.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Stark smiles, and it’s a slow, wonderful thing. Softly, “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you notice how i'm already running out of chapter titles? that right here is the reason why i usually leave it blank. 
> 
> aaanyways. wanna tell me what you think about this chapter? was it even remotely what you expected after the last one (because it was not for me. and also i'm really not sure about how they're both handling the situation. like, is it okay that they're so comfortable?)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading!  
> i hope the next chapter won't take too long, but i honestly can't promise anything ._.  
> have a good day, though, and take care of yourselves :)


	6. ikea trips and temper tantrums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, national holiday here in Switzerland (or it was, until an hour ago), 727 years and counting, and what better way to celebrate than getting my ass behind the computer and finishing this fucking chapter finished. 
> 
> have IKEA, which sounded like a better idea at the time than it is now, but who cares, because it serves to give us fluff and angst and both mixed together and eeehhh. idk.  
> i really hope you like it, and i’m so, so sorry for the long wait, real life got in the way, and a looot of procrastination too, so…  
> enjoy this chapter, and let me know if i need to put up more trigger warnings (though if you’ve made it this far, it probably isn’t getting much worse… tw for implied child abuse though, i don’t think i’ve mentioned this yet, and... choking, probably…?)  
> it's a mess, but what isn't?

Paradise isn’t a bad word for it, James thinks.

It’s easy to lose yourself here, easy to find yourself.

Overwhelming, another word for it.

People are chattering, loud and excited, quiet and dreaming about the future new home, or just generally clueless but happy to browse; there are excited toddlers, crying toddler, little children play-fighting with the plush swords in the children’s section, others playing hide and seek, or telling their parents about this great thing they saw and absolutely _have to have_ , or, _no, how about this?_ ; lovesick couples with dreamy stares and big plans, girls and boys and both; friends moving in together and already planning the next party; grown-ups here with their parents, moving on after a bad break-up — thousands of stories, of individual fates, and—

And then there’s Stark. _Tony_.

He’s explained it, on the way over. Been babbling about how construction work on the new old Compound is mostly finished now, how there were upgrades of course, and usually he’d pay someone to do this, but — he’d had a feeling, or just wanted to, and do it all himself, this time around; outfit the living areas with comfortable pieces of furniture, things that he could tweak to make them fire- and water-resistant, make them nearly unbreakable, get them in all kinds of sizes and colors, easily adaptable. _This time around_ , he’d said, _it is supposed to feel more like_ ** _home_**. And James didn’t want to, really, honestly, but he’d heard it, of course, because you can’t just turn off super hearing when you feel like it, so — he heard it, when Tony added, mostly to himself, _“Maybe, this time around, people won’t feel so inclined to leave and destroy.”_

It made something in James’ chest clench, hearing all the emotion packed into that sentence. And, at the same time, it probably prevented him from having a panic attack at the first realization that _he’s outside the Tower for the first time in over a month, Steve’s not with him (no one who could hold him back should worst come to worst), there’s just — New York City, and Tony Stark, and he’s—_

And then Tony started talking about the funny names of various furniture pieces, and that Kötbullar is Goodness in meaty form, and James concentrated on his voice, took deep breaths, and stayed focused. _He’s okay_.

He told Tony that he’s a little FLÄRDFULL, in that case, since that’s the only Swedish word he’s able to recall at the top of his head (that doesn’t make him want to cringe or—other things) and it makes for a funny descriptor that’s probably very accurate, and Tony just laughed and indicated for the next exit.

James’ nerves almost got the better of him, then; he almost gave in and just begged Tony to turn around already, he can’t do that. But then he’d seen his face, seen the light in those eyes despite the slightly strained smile, and knew he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t disappoint the one person who’d really, really, have every reason to hate him, not want to spend even five minutes in the same room as him.

Plus, James thinks that this can’t be any easier for the other man, the whole situation, and _Tony_ goes about it like it’s just another challenge to be tackled and overcome, another problem ready to be solved.

And James knows to admire that, he really does.

So he doesn’t cling to the door handle and refuse to come out when Tony eventually parks the car, doesn’t whimper and shake, like he’d surely do if this wasn’t one of his goddamn _good_ days.

(If this wasn’t _Tony_ here with him now.)

(No matter how little reason he actually has to trust the man, especially if Steve is to be believed.)

(Which doesn’t seem like a thing to be doing blindly, lately.)

He gets out and comes to a halt next to Tony, takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, and Tony chuckles and says, “That’s what I’m talking about, buddy,” like the cat that just got the cream, and James really thinks he might be ready for this.

 

-

 

He was never so wrong before.

Or, at least, was never so wrong and _liked_ the fact that he’s been wrong about something.

So, yes. Paradise. Or something close to it.

He doesn’t even know what he’d expected in the first place, but it certainly wasn’t this. Wasn’t this winding hall of different rooms and different worlds, wasn’t stories being told of artificial lives and people that don’t exist, just with how the furniture is arranged and little bits and pieces, trinkets, spread throughout. He’s convinced that that’s a special kind of art, interior design and decoration so carefully thought-through it actually makes you want to buy all these things and live all these lives, just for the sake of silencing that inner longing. It seems so silly, thinking all that, even if it’s just in the privacy of his own mind, but James doesn’t think there’s any other way to describe the magic of it.

It’s an entirely unfamiliar feeling, all of it.

 

There’s strange people all around, singles and young couples, families, an elderly married couple, youths with their parents, single dads with their excited toddlers, single moms with their friends and screaming babies, and there’s so, so many hiding places, spots that James can’t track at first glance, but for once, it doesn’t actually bother him. Too much.

He’s still on edge, still wary, but much less so than he’d be without Tony at his side, chattering a mile a minute, switching from laughing at yet another cheesy furniture-name to gushing about this piece or that to thoroughly shredding apart another one for its stupidity or uselessness or ‘danger’.

 

It’s nice.

 

Especially when James comes across the first fluffy blanket decoratively spread across one of the beds and realizes that this one actually is for sale.

It takes one look and Tony bursts out laughing, knows exactly what he wants, doesn’t judge, doesn’t say anything except a quiet “go ahead,” and that. It’s ridiculous how warm James’ chest feels after that, how fluttery he feels, and even when he hesitates putting the blanket out of his hand and into the cart Tony’s gotten for them, the other man just smiles at him, brilliantly, and moves on.

There’s more after that, because of course there are.

Six, to be exact, and James can’t resist a single one of them. Doesn’t want to, when he sees the small smile playing at the corners of Tony’s lips at each one.

Tony deserves to be able to smile.

 

And then they find the candles, the FLÄRDFULL, and when they can breathe again after laughing so much, Tony buys a dozen of them with a wink and without saying another word about it, and yes, this feels _good_.

(James almost feels guilty about it, when he inevitably starts wondering just how long this can last until—)

(So he doesn’t. Wonder, that is. Just enjoys it while he can.)

 

Other than for those two things, it turns out that they work pretty nicely as a team. Tony’s great at knowing what to pick out and at writing down the product numbers and places where to find them after, and James is good at doing the heavy lifting.

They end up with three carts between them, piled high with various items and knick knack, and by the time they’re ready to proceed to the checkout, they’ve gathered a small crowd. Not even because the people recognized them, James doesn’t think. Just because of all the stuff they’re buying, and because people just _are_ like that, they like to gawk.

But whatever the reason for it, they end up surrounded by people, and James _remembers_ , for once, remembers the way he’s seen Tony start to tremble every time he’s exposed to large amounts of people for a longer period of time, and he sees the signs, now, too.

He’s at a loss for what to do. He can’t do nothing and happily ignore it, like everyone else seems to be willing to do, because that’s just. _No_. But he doesn’t know _what_ to do, either. It’s not like he really knows Tony. No matter how much and how closely he might have watched him over the past couple months, he doesn’t _know_ him. And he’s pretty sure the guy wouldn’t appreciate being startled out of a dawning panic attack by his parents’ fucking murderer, that just seems like a sure-fire receipt for destruction and pain and even more panic.

So.

James puts on the Murder Face, as he’s heard Tony call it when he didn’t really he was being watched, channeling his inner Winter Soldier, and while the people don’t _flee_ , exactly, they certainly start to leave them the hell alone. He fumbles in his pocket for his new phone, triple presses the button at the bottom for a direct link to FRIDAY, just as it was explained in the phone’s manuals that he’s actually made the effort to read through, even though Clint had scoffed at him for doing so. (“It’s not like you can break something, and even if you do, Stark’s right there to fix it, it’s the least he can do.” — James would have liked to answer to that, but his memories were still foggy at best, and he wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t start talking in Russian if he tried and he just couldn’t risk that.)

“Sergeant Barnes?” comes the immediate inquiry, voice only slightly tinny through the phone’s tiny speakers.

James opens his mouth to answer, ask his question, because Tony still doesn’t look so good, but what comes out instead is a drawled, “What did I just tell you, doll?”

A pause, then, a little startled, maybe. “James, right, sorry.” James smiles despite himself, just a twitch of his lips. “What can I help you with today, James?”

That quickly serves to remind him about why he’s wanted to ask for her help in the first place, though, and he feels himself frown again. “It’s your daddy, doll. I think he might be—having a panic attack? It’s agoraphobia, right? Or—or something like that? He doesn’t really like being out and surrounded by people, I think, and he’s, like, breathing really fast and unsteady and his knuckles are white and—”

“Alright, James, take a deep breath. We don’t need you hyperventilating, too. As for boss’ condition—yeah, that’s something that’s been happening rather a lot, lately. Just—try talk to him, about anything. Touching him isn’t the best idea, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out already, or you wouldn’t have called me. And then, when he’s back to himself, you should try to extract him from the situation, get him back to the Tower and a cup of peppermint tea.”

“Understood,” James says, barely catches himself before adding on ‘ _parameters accepted_ ’, because that’s. Really not the right time. Or the circumstances. Or anything really. Which it hopefully never will be again. But that’s the good day talking, so. Concentrating on his current mission now.

So James talks. About the taste of burnt cookies when Steve first tried to bake them after his Ma’s original recipe, the baseball games they used to go watch. Asks FRIDAY whether the team still exists. Curses up a storm when he hears they’ve moved to the other coast. Talks about that one technician at HYDRA, around 1980, a petite woman with strawberry blonde hair that swore with the best (worst) of them and really knew her way around knifes but still couldn’t stop the bullet tearing to her flesh, even if she was the only one in all this time to even remotely treat him like a human being. He talks about all the stray parts of Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier that make up him, James. (On a good day.) (He doesn’t talk about the bad days.)

He says, “Oh, and have I told you yet about the one time someone didn’t even look me in the face, but petted my chest and told me it was nice. Cause that really warmed my heart,” and Tony laughs. It’s straining and brittle, but it’s a laugh and it really, really comes as a relief.

James lets his shoulders slump and his head fall forward, just a little, and he doesn’t even quite realize it until there’s a hand coming up in front of him and his chest gets fondled all over again. “What can I say?” Tony asks, just a little self-deprecating. “It really is a nice chest, no matter how little sleep I’m running on.”

James looks up, and for two seconds, they just smile at each other.

Then they both seem to remember where and who they are at the same time, look away, clear their throats, shuffle their feet.

It’s terribly awkward.

But, somehow, James doesn’t really mind.

“Alright,” James says, at the same time Tony starts with, “Well then, uh.”

James grins, Tony giggles. He’s nervous, still jittery, James can tell. A little short of breath, subconsciously playing with some white piece of fabric in his pocket. It doesn’t seem like a bad kind of nervous, though, and so James has an easier time to just roll with it. “Let’s get this shit-show on the road and home, then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, still a little breathless. “That actually sounds like a great idea.”

 

***

 

So.

He survived the shopping trip to IKEA, alone with the Winter Soldier, just fine. A panic attack and yelling at ignorant people and those morons who don’t follow the simplest traffic laws excluded, of course, but those can be excused. Probably.

He isn’t sure he’s going to survive _this_ , though.

 

Cap doesn’t look happy.

Then again, he hasn’t looked happy with Tony in the room in a long time.

He should be used to it by now. Still isn’t, somehow. It’s stupid, he knows.

Knows, too, that this is really the worst possible moment for a confrontation like that, not when he’s already on edge from earlier, not when there’s Clint and Wanda in the same room, too. Not when there’s a red haze around the girl’s hands, her eyes hard, filled with hatred.

That, he doesn’t think he can ever get used to.

Isn’t sure he wants to, honestly, because it isn’t particularly healthy to be made afraid in your own home like this, because you shouldn’t have to fear an attack on your life by your supposed _teammate_. Or, at least, that’s what his therapist said the last time they’ve talked about this. Then again, his therapist doesn’t exactly know what it’s like to live with superheroes, now, do they?

So. Tony’s internal monologue doesn’t exactly have a point, only really serves to make him more nervous, more riled up, because what right does _Steve_ have to—

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Steve snarls just then, takes a step forward, face red with fury, and although he doesn’t wear the gear, doesn’t have the shield on him, Tony doesn’t quite manage to hide his flinch, the way he ducks his head, pulls his shoulders up, _as though that would do any good_.

Rogers pauses, narrows his eyes. The air is unmoving, and Tony doesn’t dare to breathe, doesn’t dare to close his eyes, because he knows what he’d see then, knows the expression that would take over Cap’s face, painted on from vivid memory, knows he’d hear it again, the impact of vibranium on gold-titanium alloy, knows the way how with each passing second it would get harder to breathe, heart stuttering in his chest, pale blue lights flickering. So Tony keeps his eyes trained on Rogers, right here and right now, clenches his hands to fists to hide their shaking, counts to ten until he takes another breath, and again and again.

Rogers’ eyes narrow further, suspicion flitting across his face, as though he’s sure that there’s some kind of malicious plan to be unraveled, as though he thinks that Tony would break and confess just because Captain America looks at him like this. Oh no. Never again, _never_. He knows Hell now, knows it intimately, and in the end, Steve can’t hold a candle to that. Not now that he’s finally shown his true face. But Wanda? Wanda’s dangerous, mentally unstable, and so very hostile. She’s someone Tony has to be wary of at all times, because there’s nothing about her that’s predictable, except maybe for how much she hates one Anthony Edward Stark.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Steve asks, again, his voice pitched lower, expression oh so carefully blank.

“I don’t think I—” _understand_ , Tony tries to say, shrug it off, nonchalant, the way they want him to act, but he’s interrupted before he even gets that chance.

“Exactly!” Steve exclaims, suddenly furious. Wanda’s hands spark brighter. “You don’t think, you never do! Do you have any idea what it looked like, the two of you suddenly disappearing and FRIDAY refusing to tell us where you’d gone off to? Do you have any idea how it looked when—”

“They’re back?” That’s Romanoff interrupting him now, and she isn’t the only one to come storming into the room right now. The whole team is gathering here, how nice. “And whole?”

“I told you Stark wouldn’t dare to pull something like that,” Wilson replies, almost casually, though his narrow-eyed stare says just how precarious this judgement is.

“Something like what?” Tony asks, because he’s a moron sometimes, and a suicidal one at that, too, probably. Wilson doesn’t seem to like the question, or the twist around Tony’s mouth when he asks it.

“Going off to kill him.” No inflection, no gentle teasing tone; it doesn’t sound like anything but a simple fact.

“I—” Well, now they’ve done it. _A speechless Anthony Edward Stark, Ladies and Gentlemen, enjoy the rare show while you still can._ Really, though, Tony’s mind blanked out for a second there, just white noise. He’s — he’s known they don’t exactly think well of him, of course he’s known that, but— _this_?

“What, don’t even know how to defend yourself?” And that’s Barton at his finest again, and when he laughs, it’s not amused, it’s just plain out cruel.

(Tony has never really understood just what he _did_ to that man to make him hate him so much.)

(It’s not like he killed his family.)

(It’s not like that thought alone doesn’t make him sick to his stomach.)

(It’s not like— Tony _knows_ he isn’t perfect. But he’s thought— wrong, obviously, so very _wrong_.)

(But this— this is going too far. And for once, Tony’s too burned out, too tired and wrung out to really care about anything anymore.)

“No,” Tony says, quietly. “I just don’t know why I even have to defend myself. And anyway, it’s not like anything I’d say could possibly change your mind, is it?”

“Oh no, you don’t get to pull _that_ card, Stark! You’re not the victim here!”

(To care about the consequences for running his mouth, for just stating the plain old truth; to throw the facts in their faces in a way they can’t ignore so easily, so that even spies will have a hard time to talk around them because— you’d really have to be messed up to find anything about the _truth_ morally acceptable, to try and excuse any of their actions.)

(And it just goes to show how messed up they all are, how much of Tony’s trust they’d lost that he isn’t even sure that his truth will even make a difference anymore, that they’ll _care_.)

Now, Tony laughs, and it’s not amused. It’s not even cruel, it’s just—he can’t believe them, how they can all stand here, looking all battle ready and righteously angered when— “But I am! Who else could possibly be the victim here, hm? Who else was beaten half to death in a fucking Hydra bunker in Siberia, after watching their parents die on camera, killed by the man standing right next to them? Who else had tried to hold themselves back in the fight that broke out afterwards, because they’ve _known_ it’s wrong, known that _this is a team mate, we shouldn’t be fighting, but you hurt me and betrayed me and kept secrets that could very well mean the end of all this_ , but it’s been so difficult, because they’re so angry they could burst, want to tear the whole world down? Who else went through all that, spent thirty-three hours lying on a concrete floor in a malfunctioning metal suit in fucking Siberia, slowly bleeding out and wondering whether this is the place they die, and after, went through a twenty hour surgery on top of that, because _no_ , despite it all, they don’t _actually_ want to die? Who then got up and fought tooth and nail for the rights of the super human community when everyone else fucked off to live the comfy life in Wakanda, who made the impossible possible and got you back on American ground even if they should have the right to wish seeing you all burn at the stake? Who gets punched in the face and still offers you a home, who has to put up with your abuse every single goddamn day afterwards, just so you don’t get locked back up at a more _secure_ facility, hmm? Tell me, Barton, was it you that went through these things? Can you honestly tell me that I’m the bad guy here? Just because your children’s mother finally had the sense to wake up and see just what’s— you know what, I’m not even going to go there, I’m not letting you tear me down so low. This stops now or I’ll just stop letting you be my responsibility. And then you can see for yourselves just what the real world thinks of you now. _I’ve had enough_.”

_Deep breaths, Tony_ , his therapist’s voice says in his mind. _In and out, slowly. Don’t let it consume you —  it’ll pass. And if it doesn’t, leave the room, remove yourself from the situation. Your own wellbeing goes above pleasing others_.

The last point, Tony still struggles with, but the other ones? Yeah, leaving the room seems like a good idea right now, especially when he accidentally looks up to see the Rogues’ faces, see them staring at him with open mouths and blood-drained expressions of shock and displeasure and he can see them all thinking, probably to come up with an excuse or an insult, or some way to turn it all back on him, but he’s said it — he’s had enough. And right now, he can’t think of anything they could possibly do to him to stop him from leaving. Not as long as FRIDAY’s watching, at least, and his baby girl is always watching. As she proves right now by sliding the elevator doors back open without any kind of prompting from Tony. “Well said, boss,” she quips, and God, if Tony didn’t already love her so much…

“Shut up,” Rogers says, then, just as Tony’s turning around. His voice is lower than before, and there’s a tone in it that Tony doesn’t like, at all. He can feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing up; a shiver runs through him, from head to toe, and yeah, breathing is actually a thing he should do. “Shut the fuck up,” Rogers repeats, and now Tony recognizes the tone, the _danger_ that’s all but poured into that sentence.

He freezes.

The whole room freezes. Turns around to face Rogers, face Captain America, see for themselves just what kind of monster sometimes hides behind that mask.

Tony doesn’t dare to breathe, not really. Doesn’t dare to look up to the blond, but knows he has to, knows he has to _know_ , because he won’t be able to sleep at night if he doesn’t see it for himself, if he can’t estimate the threat. Then again, he probably won’t sleep anyway. Sleep is for the weak. For the ones that don’t have to fear for their lives in their own home.

But oh well.

 

So.

 

Tony faces him.

Their eyes meet, blue on brown, anger on what Tony wishes to be indifference, but he can’t always manage it. Not right now, at least. Right now it’s just — fear, probably. Because that care-for-nothing attitude sometimes only works in theory.

And then.

Then.

Rogers goes for attack.

Because—

Of course he would.

Tony flinches the moment he sees the first muscles shift, brings his arms up, ducks his head, hunches his shoulders.

Tries to make himself a smaller target, goes to turn away, protect the arc reactor, protect the sea-shell necklace he’s made together with Ana and Jarvis that day before his fourth birthday, before Howard first—

It takes a millisecond for his brain to catch up, to push away memories and nightmares and reconnect to the present; takes a millisecond for him to realize that Rogers can’t actually hurt him anymore now, or that he’d have to try a little bit harder, at least.

(He can’t bring himself to relax, even when knowing that.)

(Can’t get his lungs to work.)

(His heart to stop producing fuck-tons of adrenaline.)

((Does it even work that way?))

(( _Shut up._ ))

(He’s got a good goddamn reason to be afraid, after all.)

It takes another millisecond after that to realize that there’s no pain forthcoming, no sound of impact, no blood pooling in his mouth, rusty and metallic, even though he’s still not actually doing anything to defend himself.

Then, a whole second passes, with Tony waiting for the inevitable, but — at some point, he realizes that the white noise in his ears, echoing and making him dizzy, doesn’t only come from the rushing blood, the pounding headache. There’s shouting too, screaming, almost, though it seems to come from far away. More time passes, and Tony has no idea how actually long it is. Loses count of his seconds and milliseconds.

Then, Tony realizes he’s still got his eyes closed. It takes another three seconds (probably) to steel himself for whatever he might get to see when he opens them, mind rushing through every possible scenario, but nothing makes _sense_.

He doesn’t want to—

 

He opens his eyes.

There’s—

A metal hand to the throat, Steve’s fingers grappling at the plates to try and make them loosen their hold, but to no avail. His entire demeanor has changed in the matter of seconds, or maybe minutes.

“Bucky, please, no,” he pleads, as desperate as though his world is ending. “This isn’t you, please! Whatever he made you do, whatever he has on you, please, you don’t have to do that. I can—I can help you, I promise, whatever he’s done—”

James honest to God growls, yanks Steve’s face closer to his own, ignores the ashy blue tint to the Super Soldier’s skin, or the way he wheezes for breath. “No,” he says, though it’s still more like a snarl. “ _You_ shut up now. I’m not the Winter Soldier right now, this is all me. And _he_ hasn’t done anything, okay, besides take me to IKEA and buy me fluffy blankets. So you shut up with your prejudiced fucking little white boy tantrums and whatever the hell else it is you think you’re doing, and listen to me, and listen carefully. You don’t touch him. You don’t talk to him. You don’t go near him, no less than a seven meter distance, not unless he explicitly states that it’s okay for you to do so. You _stay away_. Or **_else_**.”

James doesn’t need to ask “ _Are we clear?_ ” because anyone for whom that wasn’t clear enough probably deserves to face his wrath. Not that Tony understands any of what’s going on at the moment, but he can see the look on Steve’s face and he knows it can probably only be attributed to pure luck and / or the shock of the moment that the others haven’t attacked them yet, so he won’t risk it. (Doesn’t trust the fact that Wanda’s hands are so empty, suddenly, or the look on _her_ face, or really anyone else’s.)

He clears his throat, and clears it again, just to be sure. And even then, his voice comes out slightly croaky when he says, “Alright, come on, let’s go, Snowflake,” and James’ reaction is instantaneous: his fingers uncurl immediately as he opens his grip and Steve falls to the floor, coughing and wheezing and clutching at his throat, uttering soundless words as he stares after “Bucky”; his eyes wide and expression disbelieving, pained, and then James reaches Tony’s side, reaches up with the same hand that just had Captain America in a chokehold, gently touches Tony’s cheek, turns his face away from where he’s still staring at Steve, blank and motionless, and back in the direction of the elevator; touches his arms to make them lose some of their tension, starts walking — and Tony follows without a thought, like a mindless puppet, but honestly, the only thing he can truly feel at the moment is the bone-deep relief that just for right now, he doesn’t have to _think_. And that’s — that’s — he can breathe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did those almost 5k words make up for the long wait? at least a little?  
> (and maybe the fact that Steve is now officially CONFUSED?) 
> 
>    
> btw, i just realized, but did you notice that the last paragraph is only three sentences long? xD  
> i'm getting tired, sorry, and have to go to work tomorrow, which i really don't want to, but oh well.
> 
> hope you like it, despite... well, despite. :)
> 
> (and i know i don't say this enough, but really, i thank you all so much for all your lovely (and maybe only a little bloodthirsty, at times) comments, it means so, so much to me, really keeps me going, even if it takes a little longer) <3
> 
> have a lovely day/night


	7. a tentative warmth, something like hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where there's angst and fluff, basically. a rollercoaster of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> so this was a stupidly hard chapter to write, let me tell you.  
> but first, let me place some warnings, because you’re free to skip this author’s note after that because i’ve got so many topics to ramble on about you shouldn’t have to read through it all if you don’t want to.  
> If I forgot something or didn’t realize it was triggering for some people, please let me know in the comments and I’ll be sure to add it.  
>  **Trigger Warnings** : panic attacks, both for Tony and James, so for one there’s mentioned/alluded child abuse and for the other there’s hydra training/torture memories. there’s mention of blood and wound-treatment, implication of the “Avengers” mistreating “Bucky” (and, well, me trying to be funny when i’m probably really not.)  
> it’s both a lighter chapter than some that we’ve seen before and a heavier one, because past trauma finally rears its ugly head. (and it’s not going to get better, from here on out, i’m sorry).   
> for those of you wanting to skip my ramble, now would be the time to do it :)
> 
> 1) so I’m a self conscious mess, I think we’ve already established that, so. all the good reviews and comments make me really angsty about the next chapter not being able to live up to the standard I seem to have set, especially after I’ve had to read through the whole thing again myself after being away for a while, and I really can’t understand why you’d think that mess of writing would deserve such lovely comments and so many kudos? I’m baffled every day when I see yet another kudos/comment pop up, can’t even form a coherent reply, and that’s just… I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better in the future, it’s a new year after all, but I can’t promise anything. 
> 
> 2) also, i reread some comments from last chapter — still have to get around to actually respond to them, sorry — and i realized just how anticlimactic this chapter’s going to be x’D  
> Everyone wants the Rogues (and Steve and Barton in particular) punched in the face, and here comes nothing of it. Maybe i’ll manage to put your requests (and maybe that petition there) to good use in the next chapter though, or the one after that, we’ll see :)
> 
> 3) I don't really have an excuse for why it's so late (except for NaNoWriMo in November, where I worked on my original fiction and which actually managed to get me out of my writing slump… for a little while at least, I stopped writing again for most of December, so…), so have an extra long one.   
> When I asked you guys if you were okay with a longer wait and longer chapters I didn't really mean a five-month-wait and a 7k-chapter, but that's what we get, apparently?
> 
> I really don’t have anything to say about this chapter but “what a roller coaster. this is. something else, i guess. **have fun with it.** ”  
> It’s something I wrote as a note to myself early on, so it should tell you something about how bad this is x’D  
> but please, do have fun with it (and maybe don't read it in public because it IS angsty, in a weird kind of way..)

James hates that he didn’t realize how bad it actually was until almost too late. Hates that he wasn’t more persistent, more attentive, that he didn’t question Steve after being woken up from cryo; hates that he didn’t make sure that the little _shit_ actually told everyone the truth about what went down that day. Because he hasn’t, of course he hasn’t, he’s always hated to admit to being in the wrong, hell, to even _accept_ it, and James doesn’t know what that realization makes him feel like—

Or, well, yes, he does, but he isn’t exactly comfortable thinking too closely about it, about that white-hot rage burning in his chest, the itch under his skin, in the back of his mind, about the raging flames licking at him, urging him to _do_ something about it, just forget about morals for once and—

Okay, so he doesn’t _want_ to know what it makes him feel like, the knowledge that Steve just can’t learn from his mistakes, that he doesn’t seem to realize how lying to your _friends_ about life-changing things like that might actually make them lose all trust there ever was.

(And James doesn’t even want to consider the possibility that Steve just might not _care_.)

(That the ice had done more that just freeze his body and preserve it for seventy years; that his heart, that fundamental part of his personality, might still not be thawed, that maybe it never will.)

Well, James has got to stop thinking about this _right now_ , or else he might reconsider his decision to retreat peacefully, might just have to go back and demand some fucking answers instead, because _Steve Rogers hates bullies_ and that always was an universal fact, but right now—

Right now, James isn’t sure if he even believes in universal facts anymore.

Believes in _anything_ anymore, except maybe—

“Peppermint tea, you said?” he asks quietly, under his breath, although he’s pretty sure that even if Tony can hear him, it won’t really register. Because fuck, but he looks out of it, looks distraught and has that glassy look in his eyes that doesn’t bode well, as if he’s far away and entirely too numb, and then there’s a rush of relief when FRIDAY replies with an equally quiet “Affirmative, Sergeant,” and he can’t even call her out on the name-calling, because there really are more important things on his mind right now.

More important things such as getting Tony to stop trembling. Because he’s shaking like a leaf, a quiver in his hands and legs and the corner of his mouth, and James can imagine all-too-well what’s going on in that brilliant brain of his, can imagine the remembered cold, concrete floors and ice crawling its way up his veins, frost covering a torn heart; breath coming in white puffs of air, stiff bones and frail skin, and yeah, no, he doesn’t need to lose it, too.

Instead, before he can think too much of it, of the instincts that rise up from under James’ own skin, he slips out of the sleeves of his jacket. Makes sure that Tony notices the movements of his hands, that he doesn’t startle when James then continues to drape the warm leather across his shoulders, and James tries not to think anything of it when Tony immediately reaches out to pull it closer around himself, not-so-very-subtly burrows his nose in the collar, and some of the tension in his shoulder loosens.

(James fails miserably.)

(But, he thinks, that has always been a weakness of his.)

(He thinks, that’s probably one of the few things he doesn’t hate about remembering Bucky.)

(The ability to care — way too fucking _much_.)

 

When they arrive in a hallway James has never been in before he suddenly realizes that he doesn’t actually know where they’re going. Realizes that he’s been following the blinking lights on the floor without a second thought, not questioning it for a minute and just _trusting_ FRIDAY, and that’s a fucking miracle in and of itself. He isn’t sure what to think about that, once again.

Decides to just ignore it altogether, because while it solved a lot of issues — like where to go because common rooms are a big no-no, and Tony sure as hell wouldn’t want him in his penthouse, and apparently Tony’s been “fucking petty” enough to not give the Avengers back the floors they’ve once lived on and instead made them all camp up on one together (as if there weren’t five spare rooms on that floor alone _even so_ ) — James also has no idea how to say ‘thank you’ and actually sound sincere.

Doesn’t even try to figure out how _that_ makes him feel like.

It’s very much possible that it absolutely doesn’t matter right now, anyway, because Tony’s still shaking, just a little, and he misses a step every now and then. It’s possible, too, that it _really_ takes all of James’ willpower to not just pick him up and carry him wherever FRIDAY tells him to go. But that’s not something James is willing admit to anyone.

And he has no clue what it is with him today. Where all these _feelings_ came from, and why, messy as they are, he’s pretty sure he’s going to miss them when they inevitably disappear again, buried under yet another flash of the Soldier’s personality, his presence at the back of his mind.

So.

Instead of mentally addressing any of this, though, he just smiles up at one of FRIDAY’s cameras and continues gently steering Tony in the right direction.

 

-

 

Once James stands in the kitchen and has Tony deposited in one of the unreasonably cushion-y bar stools, he takes a breath and tries to remember what the hell he’s actually supposed to do right now.

Why he’d thought he could do this, whatever it is.

(It’s something that has ‘ _bad idea_ ’ written all over it.)

(Which is more familiar than he’d care to admit.)

And then he knows. Remembers the small, frail body of a long-lost best friend, voice rough after an asthma attack, tears in his eyes after the latest coughing fit, but still he’s joking, still he’s trying to make the best out of a bad situation, and James, _Bucky_ , just smiles along with it and pours some honey into a mug, pours hot water and peppermint tea, and that’s just. Yet another thing he didn’t remember there still was, yet another thing he’d lost without quite knowing it, because these versions of Steve seem incompatible in a way that goes beyond the physical. In a way that makes his heart ache, for a too-long moment, makes him mourn for that deep friendship there once was, for the easy trust and the unbidden smiles, because none of these things seem like something he can have anymore. Because this Steve, seventy-years-in-the-future Steve is someone who was about to attack an innocent, someone weaker than him, one of those he once swore to protect, out of nothing but a misguided assumption; is someone who’d probably turn his nose up at honey and hot water and peppermint tea, and that’s a thought that causes his heart ache to turn into an entirely different kind of monster.

James takes a breath, opens his eyes, breathes out, and watches as Tony, shaking hands and all, rests his arms on top of the kitchen counter, crosses them to make a cushioned place for his chin to rest, and watches James right back, much more aware than just minutes ago.

Tony smiles roughly, untethered, and James’s chest feels tight, suddenly. Feels like he’s not getting enough air, not with this intense gaze focused solely on him, and so he turns around, mutters a quiet question under his breath and occupies his hands when he gets an equally quiet answer. Tony makes an inquisitive noise, then, directed at James’ back, says, “ _What are you two troublemakers whispering about now?_ ” and “ _FRI, tell me you aren’t conspiring against your dearly beloved creator again_ ,” but James forces himself not to react, not to turn around and … _do_ something, something stupid probably, something born of instinct and fractured mosaics of memories, and he doesn’t want that, not right now, not ever, if possible.

James holds his breath (and he can do that for a long time, he knows, he’s tried, has gone to forty-eight minutes and counting before his vision started getting fuzzy and he finally started believing again, accepted that yes, he’s still _alive_ , no matter what his memories try to tell him, with yet another panic attack still sizzling in his blood and at the back of his mind), holds it and releases it, scoops out another spoonful of honey and adds it to the mug, because FRIDAY isn’t conspiring, but she likes to indulge her creator’s sweet tooth every once in a while, and especially when he’s like this.

She doesn’t like to see him so frail, even though she’s almost gotten used to it in the last few months, and she confides in James, in a low hum that probably sounds like static to Tony’s unenhanced ears, that he’s been better lately — even hough she still doesn’t agree with many of his decisions, eating and sleeping habits —, but she really hopes the Rogues’ stay here doesn’t fuck him up again, destroy all the good progress. James _promises_ her that he won’t let it come to that, with too much emphasis on that, probably, because Tony perks up and frowns, says, “ _What are you talking about now?_ ” and “ _I get it, you know, I’m just an old man, no one important, just please keep on ignoring me—_ ” but doesn’t get further than than because James is setting down a steaming mug in front of him, carefully so as to spill anything, oh so carefully (and not handing him the mug directly, because that’s something FRIDAY doesn’t have to warn him about, something that everyone should know, should be able to _see_ , even if they have the brain capacity of a common pig, but with the Rogue Avengers being as they are even that’s questionable, so—).

James doesn’t think too hard about it, focuses instead on mentally complaining about how the tea even smells sweet enough to give him caries already, focuses on the fact that Tony’s eyes light up the instant he recognizes the brand, and suddenly it’s not hard at all to forget about Tony’s past trauma and everything else, because this is a moment that makes it all worth it — even the fact that James didn’t get to actually punch Rogers in the face. Even the fact that he _wanted_ to punch Rogers in the face in the first place.

But Rogers is not Steve, doesn’t even share the same body with the brave man that James, _Bucky_ , remembers, and it’s easy to overwrite one memory with another, to forever recall this moment right here when he thinks of _peppermint tea and honey_ , because Tony’s got his eyes closed and his hands wrapped around the mug, obnoxious red and gold as it is — actual, sparkling gold, not the usual yellow paint —, complete with an Iron Man face plate that’s facing James now, he’s got his mouth open, just a little, his tongue peeking out as though he’s a snake who’s got to smell by its taste buds, and there’s a small smile on his lips that does things to James’ stomach that he’d rather not think about too closely.

And that’s when, of course, it all goes to shit.

Because Tony stiffens, all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, but James knows plenty about the dangerous place your own mind can become if you’re not careful, about the landmines that lurk in there, sometimes, and how they’re triggered, all too easily, by the ghost of a single thought, and then it’s — not good, any longer. Fight or flight, life or death kind of situations playing out in your head and outside of it, too, because you can’t actually flee reality, not always and certainly not when you want to.

So. Tony stiffens and his eyes fly open, widen in — shock, or fear, or something, and his mouth forms an ‘ _Oh_ ’ around a soundless gasp, and his heart stumbles over itself, kickstarted from adrenaline, an arrhythmia that shouldn’t exist, and then — his whole face goes slack, and his fingers, too, and the mug falls from his hands, hits the edge of the countertop and wobbles, for just a heartbeat, and James watches, can’t react, as it loses the fight against gravity, topples toward the floor, hot liquid sloshing, the sound like a million gunshots when it hits the floor and breaks into a thousand shards, a hundred memories, shattered bones and frozen blood, and James can’t really — can’t really do anything except duck behind the bar and take quick, deep breaths, try not to inhale dust and ashes, try to access the situation, try to find a way out, _out_ , try and try and fail, always _fail_. He just, he hopes for a quick punishment, maybe, one that doesn’t get dragged out for too long, one that doesn’t involve cruel hands and crueler words, laughter that echoes in the Soldier’s ears even after he’s been put back in his chamber, cold and alone and voice screamed hoarse. He’s kind of a coward in that respect, probably, the thought lodged in his throat after hours of torture, and he still tries to _flee_ , a coward with a little bit of humanity that managed to survive everything that he’s been put through, a selfish bit, the one that keeps on wanting to survive and is willing to go through almost everything for it, but _not this, never this, not again_ —

“Sergeant Barnes,” he hears, a female voice, Irish accent.

“Sergeant Barnes,” he repeats, blindly, reaching for it like the starving, the dying creature he is. There’s — _something_. Something he’s supposed to say, or maybe something he’s supposed to keep quiet about on pain of death, he doesn’t remember, but he _does_ , remembers, “107th Infantry Regiment, Three Two Five Five Seven Oh—”

“Oh, honey, _no_ ,” someone says, male, voice rough, scratchy, but distant enough that it barely registers. Unimportant data. Dismissed.

“Three Eight Five Six Eight Nine Eight,” he finishes, pauses. Swallows, waits.

There’s no order forthcoming, so he starts again, because if there’s no punishment then this is what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

“Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. Born on March 10, nineteen-seventeen. Soldier of the 107th Infantry Regiment, serial number Three Two—”

A flash of pain, at the back of his skull, a memory unearthed. Sudden, bright. _He doesn’t wait for orders, no longer_.

(Never again.)

(But there are words, he knows. Words and ways to assure his compliance.)

( _Pet_.)

(( _There’s more to me than that. There has to be._ And this—))

Confusion, so much confusion, so many voices, it _hurts_ —

Darkness coating him like oil. A thought in the back of his mind, like a spark.

(So very dangerous.)

But this, this is what’s supposed to keep him sane, isn’t it, no matter that it doesn’t feel like it at all.

(Oil and fire don’t mix well.)

It’s better than nothing, though, always better than nothing, than cold and ice and emptiness—

The numbers go on (“Five Five Seven Oh Three Eight—”), the sentence gets repeated.

Over and over and—

There’s someone kneeling in front of him, so close that he can feel their body heat but far enough away that he couldn’t reach them without making an effort; too close for the distance to save them should he decide to lash out.

The someone is babbling lowly, a constant stream of words that’s probably supposed to be comforting, and to the the Asset’s — the Soldier’s — the _man’s_ great surprise it actually seems to work, because his elevated heart rate starts slowing down, a little, as he listens, as he watches out, carefully, for orders, to decide for himself if he’d even take them or not.

“I’m going to clean it up, alright,” the voice says, the first distinct words he can hear, can understand, and it continues on without pausing for breath, “it doesn’t matter, it’s just a mug, I’m sorry, I really am, I’m just so clumsy sometimes, and hot things — I don’t really like hot things, not in my hands, so I was startled, I guess, and shit happens, alright, but please calm down, alright, I promise you’re not wherever you think right now you are. You’re in New York, it’s the 21st century, we’re in Stark Tower, which I built, by the way, or well, not really, because I’m not, you know, an architect or a construction worker — although I totally could be, if I wanted to, of course, but it’s more like I’m the owner of it, and you sure as all hell can believe me when I say that whatever bastards you’re thinking of right now they’re not here, never will be, and if they should still somehow find a way around all my security works I’ll just have to throw them out a window, all right, because you’re James Buchanan Barnes and you didn’t deserve any of this shit happening to you. You don’t. And you’re going to be okay, okay?”

James’ heart is pounding, heard enough that the sound of it almost drowns out the rest of Tony’s sentences. He feels dizzy, too, just a bit breathless, just from _listening_ , and he doesn’t even want to know how _Tony_ must fare, beyond the panting breaths he’s taking right now, the big gulps of air, as though he plans to go on still, as though he hasn’t already done more than enough.

Because James remembers his name now, _remembers his name_ , it’s not just blood and pain and consequences; he remembers consequences of an entirely different kind, a home furniture store, candles and blankets en masse. Remembers _Tony_ , most of all. Tony Stark, that tortured, brave and so very kindhearted man who has no reason to do any of these things but does them anyway, apropos of nothing.

“Okay. You’re James Buchanan Barnes, most of all, and yeah, maybe you’re also a little bit the Winter Soldier, and a little bit the Bucky Barnes that Rogers’s still pining for, but, well, James is who you wanted to be, last time I checked, so James it is, and I’d really appreciate you not freaking out on me right now, okay?”

“Yeah,” James answers, a slow smile curling his lips, “okay,” and Tony topples over backwards in surprise, his legs giving out on him, his reaction time too slow to catch his on his hands so he hits his head on the cupboard door behind him, and he grumbles and rubs the sore spot, but doesn’t take his eyes off of James as his mouth tries to form words that refuse to come out. “Thank you,” James adds, then. “I really don’t like freaking out, either, especially like this, so I — _thank you_.”

His words are failing him again, like every so often; he doesn’t manage to gather the right sounds and syllables on his lips, has no idea how to express the depth of what he’s feeling right now, the emotions bubbling so close under his skin, but he thinks Tony understands him just as well, because these eyes don’t lie, there’s no place for lying and betraying coldness in this warm brown, not even in the icy blue that flashes through from time to time.

Instead there’s just that familiar hauntedness; brows pinched, eyes faraway, jaw slack. The desperation painted in the line of his mouth, the hopelessness in the crease of his forehead, the sheer overwhelming hope that fills your chest when your eyes catch on something real, something solid, a splash of color in a world of grey, a breath of air that doesn’t smell like fire, smoke and blood, doesn’t taste like pain and bitter regret; lost, lost, found. A tentative curl of his lips, reaching out with reassurance. Hope.

Words are simply not enough, but here, with Tony, they don’t have to be.

 

***

 

It’s kind of fascinating, fighting his way out of a panic attack just to come aware to James Buchanan Barnes standing in one of the Tower’s kitchens, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair falling out of his man-bun and into his eyes, and a look on his face as though the next task is going to be the most important one of them all.

It’s kind of fascinating, the sluggish feeling of his brain, trickling along, as though he’s well and truly on his way to being drunk, or maybe as though he’s got something mixed into his drink.

Then he remembers that sleep deprivation actually is a thing, and emotional exhaustion, too, and maybe it’s really not all that fascinating.

But James is quite a sight to see, especially when he figures out that the mugs are kept on the top shelves so high up even _he_ has to stand on his tippy-toes, and when he stretches his shirt rides up, revealing a stripe of pale skin and paler scars, and maybe Tony’s already asleep and this is a dream and maybe that’s why there’s that darkness lingering at the edges of his vision, why his heartbeat is still not quite even, maybe it’s because this can turn into a nightmare any minute now.

Or maybe, maybe, this is something else entirely, but for the life of him he can’t figure out what that could be.

So he just.

Watches.

Finds his eyelids heavy, his head heavy, his arms and legs. Finds the exhaustion settling into every cell and fibre, now that the adrenaline’s fading, and _he’s_ fading, can feel himself doing so, slipping away, but finds that he’s unable to do anything to stop it.

There’s the anxiousness still clinging to his skin, of course, the unsettled-ness and just plain out fear, and he _reeks_ like it, too, but for once the tiredness seems to be winning out. For once he’d rather not care about hiding his smile at James’ little hip-shimmy when the water’s finished heating and he deposits the tea bag in a mug than making sure to keep up appearances even when he feels like falling apart, held together by only the thinnest of threads.

He drifts. He’s drowsy, but a warm kind of it, secure and comfortable after the bone-chilling awfulness and the exhaustion that follows on the heels of every panic attack, so it doesn’t really register what he’s doing until it’s too late; lured in by the smell of strong herbs and sweet honey, a smell like home, like the Jarvises and cookies, like Christmas eve and — a snarl on Howard’s face, a smug twist to his lips, “ _can’t even do the simplest things, huh? Hold this, useless boy_ ,” heat and pain and fire in his veins, so much pain, but he can’t let go because he doesn’t want to be useless, he just wants to _help_ , to do something _right_ , for once, and then his fingers spasm before he quite realizes it, his grip slips, and this is not hot metal, this is something that shatters when it comes in contact with the hardwood floor, which is enough to make him snap out of it, to make him blink and realize that Howard _isn’t here_ , has been dead for many years now, but the person that _should_ be here isn’t here either, and gods, but he’s getting a headache that makes thinking hard even for him.

“James,” Tony mutters, or his lips do, and only when he repeats the sound does it register, only when he says, “James,” again, does he realize that _yes_ , Howard isn’t here, but James isn’t either, so, what happened?

The panic doesn’t have time to properly settle into his bones again, though, doesn’t get the chance to do more that elevate his heartbeat once more, then FRIDAY’s here and says, “Sergeant Barnes,” in that calm and collected voice of hers that she always accesses in situations of great distress, and that’s the first sign that something’s going terribly wrong. The second sign in the barely-there echo of it, rougher and deeper, a voice that sounds like it’s held together by shreds, if that.

“James,” Tony says, because it seems as though his mouth isn’t capable of anything else, not right now. He scrambles up from his chair, miscalculates, cuts his hands bloody on porcelain shards, but he doesn’t feel the pain (would take it over scorching metal, any time), but FRIDAY’s voice sounds in his ear then, stops him in his haste to — get to wherever James is, right now. “It’s not a panic attack, boss, I don’t think. Dissociation, maybe, or a severe panic attack, or— I can’t really tell, I just have the symptoms: elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, and he—”

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence, because Tony hears it for himself just then, as the voice grows stronger, more sure, somehow. “107th Infantry Regiment, Three Two Five Five Seven Oh,” and Tony’s got a photographic memory, okay, he _knows_ Bucky Barnes’ serial number, won’t ever forget it, and fuck, but this doesn’t bode well. This can’t mean anything good, and Tony’s not even concerned about what it might mean for himself, doesn’t spare a single thought to the disaster-potential of dealing with disassociating Super Soldier (Ex-)Assassins, mostly because there’s only one of those around, and it’s James, and Tony can’t let him go through this again, okay, he can’t, he just _won’t_.

“He’s on the other side of the bar,” FRIDAY says, then, because she knows him and he _loves_ her. “Just — be carefully, boss, alright? I alerted Rhodey of the presence of the Winter Soldier, he should be by shortly,” and Tony can’t even bring himself to get mad at her, because the memory of how Rhodey threatened bodily harm in form of decaffeinated coffee until he personally watched Tony install ( _and activate!_ ) that very protocol is still seared into his mind, and he knows, too well, that there’s a good reason for this. He appreciates the thought, he really does, but right now it’s not _him_ who needs help.

So.

He only doesn’t vault straight over the bar because, no matter how much he’d like to deny it, he _is_ getting old, and for things like that the suit is the only sensible choice, and, well, no need for unnecessary dramatics, right?

(There’s a voice inside of his head that gives an elegant snort at that and reminds him that being dramatic is a part of Tony Stark like his goatee is, and it sounds suspiciously like Pepper.)

(His mind has never handled these kinds of situations quite right, though, going off on tangents within tangents and only sparing the smallest of thinking resources to the things his mouth actually says, so he’s always babbling, rambling and ranting, always trying to say sensible, comforting things that turn out to be not all that comforting at all.)

This time, though, miracle of miracles, it actually seems to work, because Tony notices how James’ eyes focus back on him (or maybe they’re the Winter Soldier’s, still), and when the focus doesn’t wander, only gets more intense, he calls him by his name, tries to stop them both from freaking out.

James _looks_ at him and answers, and fuck, but Tony hasn’t felt quite so relieved in a very long time.

(No matter the fact that there was basically an _“okay?” — “okay.”_ -moment and that was _so_ not okay.)

Tony’s head smarts, then, again, reminding him of its unfortunate meeting with the cupboard door and all the other things it’s been through in the past few days, and his thoughts are already scattered in all directions of the wind.

The remembered panic starts to ebb and fade away, leaving only a sour aftertaste in his mouth, and the look on James’ face burned into his retinas.

(It doesn’t mean anything.)

(Why does he want it to?)

 

-

 

There’s only a short flicker of green lights along the floor to warn Tony of Rhodey’s imminent arrival, but it’s enough, just so.

His hair isn’t sleep-mussed, exactly, but Tony’s honey bear definitely looks as though he’d spent the afternoon (or maybe the whole day) lazing about; one of his rare indulgences, a once-in-a-decade occurrence and Tony hadn’t been there for it! What usually would pose the perfect excuse for a fit of mock outrage barely leads to more than a short, accusing lift of Tony’s eyebrows, though, because he’s got honestly more important things to worry about right now — and if that isn’t a sentence he’d never thought he’d think.

Rhodey just waggles his eyebrows back at him with the sort of cocky grin playing at the corners of his mouth that Tony only now realizes he’s missed seeing for so long, opens his mouth and — doesn’t say anything. Instead, his entire body stills, he holds his breath, face pale and shadowed in the winter-evening-darkness of the room.

His movement is careful, widely projected, when he eventually lifts his arm, rubs at his eyes as though wanting to see something other than the picture Tony probably makes, sitting on the floor right next to a still-shaking James.

“What?” Tony asks, defensively. Rhodey doesn’t even deign that with an answer, though Tony didn’t really expect him to. This is… new. And Tony isn’t exactly sure if he’s comfortable with it.

Rhodey stares some more. “So…” he says, then. “What exactly do you plan with a dozen red candles and all these blankets?”

“I…” Tony bites his lip, avoids Rhodey’s gaze. Shrugs, trying for unconcerned. “They’re not mine. James wanted them.”

Rhodey narrows his eyes at him, and the look in them is a familiar one, a dangerous one. “James wanted them, hm?”

There’s a pause, a pregnant one, that makes Tony wonder if he’s actually supposed to answer that.

Then Rhodey’s face suddenly smooths out, his eyes widen, and, “Wait. Wait, wait, _wait_. Tony Stark, are you honestly trying to tell me right now that you went to IKEA without me?”

“Uh,” Tony says, “Sorry?”

 

***

 

Rhodes whirls his chair around with wide eyes and a betrayed look on his face, an exaggeration if James has ever seen one, a playful threat, but — he can’t help it, instinct reacts before his brain manages to catch up, and he flinches, minutely, throws his arm out and shoves Tony behind him, crouches and grabs a shard off the floor, because — he doesn’t know why, doesn’t have to know why, just has to do it, has to protect Tony, or else—

Rhodes stops with his finger still lifted in mid-air, pointed accusingly at where Tony’s been sitting just a second ago. Gapes stupidly, not unlike a fish out of water.

_Poor reaction time_ , an all-too-familiar voice sneers in the back of James’ mind, _he could be dead three times over, doesn’t stand a chance at protecting Tony_.

And then he stops, too.

Tilts his head back, nose in the air. Careful. Lets his jaw go slack, opens his mouth. Narrows his eyes at the metallic taste on the tip of his tongue, at the back of his throat. _Rusted_. He shudders, shakes off the flash of memory. Still watches Rhodes’ every move, watches his right hand jerk, as if he wants to reach for a gun, as if the instinct finally kicked in ( _too late now, so much too late_ ), but since his fingers are still clenched rightly around the handles of his wheels, it only serves to move his chair back a hand-width, and something crunches under the rubber, squeaks wetly against the floor.

James’ gaze catches on the red-and-gold shards behind him, the shattered remains of an Iron Man mug, and the whole picture shifts into focus all of a sudden, the pieces click together, as he remembers and interprets, and his heart is in his throat as he whirls around, forgets about the shard clenched in his own fingers until he’s brought it way too close to Tony’s throat and Rhodes’ shout snaps him out of it; his hand falls open and it shatters to the floor, his hand comes to rest against the side of Tony’s neck, the flesh-and-blood one, stretching wide enough for his thumb to come to rest against the corner of Tony’s lips, his pinkie to press against Tony’s pulse point, not only reminding them both of the fact that he’s still alive, but also bringing into sharp focus that Tony hasn’t flinched once this whole time, that his heart isn’t jack-rabbiting away with fear, but only slightly elevated, and his breath puffs warm air across the back of James’ thumb, his eyelashes flutter closed.

They stay in that position for — not too long, probably, because James has turned his back to Tony’s _platypus_ , to Colonel James Rupert Rhodes, an unknown factor very much capable of wielding a weapon, because he hasn’t found the source of the blood, not yet, there’s still—

He makes himself let go of the soft skin at Tony’s nape ( _so vulnerable_ ), makes himself tear his gaze away from where it’s been locked with Tony’s ( _so intense_ ), lets his fingers drift down instead, lets them trace a collarbone and the hollow of his throat, a shoulder and sharp bones, biceps and strong muscles, an elbow joint and stark veins, coarse hair, a slender wrist, and there are piano-players’ long fingers, a mechanic’s callouses, but his exploratory touch stops, again, at the pulse point here.

And again, words seem to escape him. He opens his mouth, but his tongue is unable to find syllables to curl around and turn into sound, he has no idea what to say, so he decides to just let actions speak for him, instead, because that often tends to work best, in the end.

He changes his grip on Tony’s wrist, urges him up and tugs him over to the sink, soft, but insistently. He feels Rhodes’ eyes burning a hole into his back, is aware of the blatant mistrust there, the pure _danger_ of it, can’t bring himself to care, not now, not when he’s responsible for this, not when’s to blame for Tony being _hurt_. He’s got to make it better. Got to take care of him, make the hurt go away, because _fuck_ , but he’s caused him enough hurt already, caused this wonderful man enough sleepless nights, gave enough reasons to hate him, he doesn’t need this on him, too.

Carefully, oh so very carefully, James washes out the wounds on Tony’s hands, watches blood and shattered porcelain swirl down the drain, thinks of the German proverb “ _Scherben bringen Glück_ ” and hopes for it to be true because a bit of good luck among broken crockery wouldn’t go amiss even if luck certainly has never been on _his_ side before, listens to Tony complain about how they _just_ established that _just because he’s an old man doesn’t mean he’s an invalid, he can do this himself just fine, he’s fine, alright_ , listens and nods and notes how Tony complains but doesn’t make to pull away, so James doesn’t let him go and smiles to himself instead, just with the corner of his mouth, and his eyes, maybe, because Tony stops mid-sentence when he notices, stops and swallows and doesn’t go on.

James’ smile grows wider at that, and out of the corner of his eye he sees how Tony scowls, for just a moment, furrows his brows and tugs one of his hands free (and James lets go, immediately, would never _dare_ to restrain him). Then he growls, a little, in the back of his throat, scowls some more, and smacks James in the shoulder with the back of it, before, eventually, he gives up on trying to control his expression, on holding back the twitch of his own lips, and obediently puts his hand back in James’, without needing any prompting at all. James’ smile stays firmly in place, after that, and he rubs his thumb over the heel of Tony’s hand in silent reward.

Someone chokes, behind them, and only then does James remember that they’re not alone, anymore, but before he can even think to tense, the choke turns into laughter until it’s wheezy with lack of air, and then Rhodes says, “You’ve _got_ to teach me just how you did this just now,” says, “Oh my goodness, Tones, your _face_!” says, “this is the best thing I’ve seen all day,” and it’s not like the tension just vanished, but it’s certainly dissolved a little. There’s less mistrust and _threat_ coming from the other man, even though the protective vibe still very clearly permeates the air. James knows how to appreciate the loyalty to one’s best friend, knows how it feels seared deep into your bones although he hasn’t had to call on his own in a very long time now.

He just hopes he doesn’t ruin it with the, “It has to pay off to be a terrifying Super Soldier Ex-Assassin somehow, right?” that jumps around in the cavity of his mouth like an overexcited child and then pushes its way out with a battle cry; a quick look aimed over James’ shoulder reveals that Rhodes is gaping at him now, one to his side shows him Tony with very much the same expression on his face.

“You…” Tony says, “Did you just—”

James doesn’t react other than with a tilt of his head, shuts off the water, gets a clean towel from a cupboard that FRIDAY gives him whispered directions to, and both Rhodes’ and Tony’s expressions grow just that much more confused, Tony’s complete with innocently questioning puppy dog eyes, and James would laugh at the picture if he still remembered how, if the Soldier didn’t linger so closely under his skin, even now.

“You can’t do that, James!” Tony protests, when he finally seems to regain the use of his mouth. “I was not prepared for this, that’s not fair, that’s — foul play, that’s what it is! And it’s not like I actually said it out loud!”

Rhodey’s crying again by the time Tony tacks on that last sentence, has tears in his eyes from laughing so much, and it’s not like James can really fault him for it, but the relief is too strong to leave space for any sort of humor to manifest right now.

“Thanks, Tony,” James says, dryly. “That’s good to know.”

(He can’t _breathe_ with how good it feels to receive such a reaction and not tense mouths and brows and shoulders, warning glances and hands reaching for weapons, comms crackling in warning, because what if _Bucky_ isn’t in complete control here, what if the Winter Soldier takes over and—)

(James wants to _laugh_ but he can’t _breathe_ , and in the end he almost chokes on relief and bitterness and an entirely new feeling of freedom.)

(He swallows it down because showing weakness is still an entirely different thing from showing self-deprecating humor, because humor they can’t do anything about, but weakness they can, _oh, they can_.)

“Okay,” Rhodey blurts out, eventually, his voice hoarse from the fits of laughter. “I don’t know how the hell you did it, but we’re keeping him, Tony, we absolutely _have to_.”

Tony tucks his answering smile away in the crook of his neck, but not quickly enough to hide it from James’ eyes. “Yeah,” he says, softly. “That we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh yeah, but one last thing I thought I’d clarify, because I saw some posts on tumblr about that lately: I’m not a native English speaker, and I’m looking to improvise my English as well as my storytelling abilities all the time. So if you see some glaring mistake or would like to leave constructive criticism, feel free to do so! I’d love to improve!)
> 
> (Oh, and my (not very active) tumblr is this, by the way, if anyone’s interested (or wants to scream at me about these boys): baerlii)
> 
> Hope you liked this one, though. And, again, sorry for the wait. Have a lovely night, my lovelies <3


	8. a spider on the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me! Posting on (inexistent) schedule! No waiting for months! And the next chapter even is almost halfway written!
> 
> It’s not as long as the last one, but I hope that’s okay too :)
> 
> Uhh, I hope I will actually get around to answering comments tomorrow, but I can’t promise anything.  
> I do have to say, though, that I read every single one on my mail and I appreciate them so, so much. Honestly. I know I said last time that they somehow pressure me, but I also forgot how good it can feel. Honestly, I get so giddy every time I get a new one, it’s ridiculous. Especially when I get them while at work, people probably jumped to so many wrong conclusions x’D
> 
> As for this chapter, I think there aren’t any trigger warnings for once? Other than “aborted death threats”, prejudice and more remembered trauma and bad self-worth and well… if you’ve made it this far and are still reading it I probably don’t have to warn you off my jumbled writing style, but I have a feeling it could be worse than usual this time. There was a scene in tony’s pov that I had to reorganize multiple times and I have no idea if it even makes sense anymore ^^*  
> but you’d tell me if it doesn’t, yeah? Thank you :)
> 
> Soooo, now that that’s out of the way, brace yourselves for the arrival of…

James doesn’t know who Spider Man is.

He just knows that when he suddenly drops from a ceiling vent, he’s lucky that Tony cries out a happy greeting that makes James’s fingers jerk, makes him aim a few millimeters higher, a few centimeters to the left, and it’s just enough to make the tablespoon miss clipping Spiderling’s ear — let alone the pulse point at his throat —, to make the next one not even leave James’ hand even though he would have been ready to aim for the heart this time.

You _do not_ sneak up on the Winter Soldier and live to regret it.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes, a second later, when the metallic clang of spoon against tiles echoes through the kitchen, when the Spider’s reaction time has proved okay, maybe even good, but still too slow to compete against James’.

“Fuck,” Rhodes repeats, and, “Fuck,” says the Spider.

James doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think he has to.

Instead he goes back to what he was doing before, tries to ignore the racing of his heart, the adrenaline that courses through his blood stream but doesn’t have a way out.

He’s _fine_.

“Another one?” James asks, then, into the silence. He’s pried out a second ice cube, but isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to drop it into Tony’s mug, too, or if the other man would rather not. He _is_ sure, though, that he really doesn’t like the feel of ice against the fingers of his flesh hand, doesn’t like the way it feels mirrored on the other side, the currently empty sleeve, the way it sparks at his artificial nerves or the memories it calls forth, the sensation of total paralysis, and there’s no way to breathe, to move, _I can’t breathe_ —

He lets it drop the very second Tony’s head jerks in a dazed nod, relishes, almost, in the splashes of hot tea water that cover his fingers instead, because he might have let it drop a little too forcefully, a little too desperately, if the look in Tony’s eyes is anything to go by; might have forgotten to hide the panic away inside and let it show on his face instead. A rookie mistake. He’s becoming negligent here, slacking off. _Fuck_.

“Thanks,” is the only thing Tony ends up saying, though his gaze stays alert, trained on James’ face as though there’s nothing more fascinating elsewhere in the world.

The silence stretches, again.

Motionless.

Then: “So, does anyone want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

“Language,” Tony says, mildly, and it seems like he’d be content to let that be his only reaction. James decides to follow his example, wraps his fingers around the mug — a Hulk-themed one, this time — and decides that the temperature has gone down enough for Tony to handle. His lingering distraction shows, though, when he tries to hand the mug to Tony directly, instead of setting it down first, because he should _know that by now_ , has watched him flinch away from people handing him things more times than he can count on both hands, _but_ —

Tony gives him a soft smile, another whispered thanks, and accepts the offering; his smile becomes wider when he notices the warm-not-hot temperature, and the crinkles around his eyes prove that it’s a real one.

James doesn’t quite dare to breathe.

Spiderling seems to have a similar problem, because he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t take a breath or let one out until after Tony has taken his first sip, looked up to see everyone staring at him, and rolled his eyes at them all. James doesn’t think he’s realized what he’d just done.

“What the fuck is going on here?” the Spider repeats, then, sounding stunned. It’s hard to read his expression under that damned mask, but James guesses that he _looks_ pretty stunned, too. His body language is more open than it should be, anyway, especially considering he’d narrowly escaped death-by-tablespoons not five minutes ago.

Rhodes smiles a crooked smile, sighs dramatically. “I have no idea. But it doesn’t seem bad.”

“—doesn’t _seem_ bad?” Spider Man exclaims, and the high pitch of his voice causes James to flinch, the way it breaks at the end there makes him wonder about just how old that super human really is. “What is _wrong_ with you? How does that not seem bad? It’s the fucking Winter Soldier, dude! He killed Tony’s parents! And now he’s done—what? Tony, what has he done to you?”

Tony groans, covering his eyes, and James can’t help it, either. _Really_.

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“It’s basically the same question Rogers asked _me_ , not two hours ago. A little different in tone, I’ll give you that, but the gist of it was the same.”

“—what?”

“Look, kiddo,” Tony sets down his mug. “I know it’s hard, I know it’s not fair. Whatever happened, happened, it’s no use crying over spilled milk, yadda yadda. But neither you nor Rogers get to blame us for changing the other, okay? James and I did it all on our own, the growing part. We’re not the same people we were ten months ago, we’ll never be them again. And it’s a good thing, I’d wager. There’s a steep road still ahead of us, but we’re finally on it, okay? We’re trying to heal, to recover. And if we have to help each other out along the way, then so be it. But it doesn’t mean that one of us has corrupted the other and turned him into a kind of monster or whatever the fuck you’re thinking. We’ve been hurt, we’re allowed to lug the damage around with us, too, the trauma and the pain. We’ll make mistakes. We’ll fail, we’ll hurt. But that’s just part of life, isn’t it? You’re supposed to get up after, and that’s what we’re trying to do right now.”

The following silence makes the air crackle with tension, with electricity of an unknown kind, but one that _doesn’t_ remind James of the Chair. It doesn’t, and maybe that’s what compels him to clear his throat, open his mouth, and say, “Well. What he said.”

Maybe that’s what leaves him feeling reckless, what makes him get down another mug from the cupboard, hold it out to Spider Man in offering and ask, “Tea?”

 

***

 

They’re sitting around the bar in silence, once again. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but it isn’t stony, either. Tony’s mind feels dizzy with the day’s events.

“So,” he asks, eventually, because he knows Peter won’t break the silence, even though the words are practically stewing in him, begging to get out. “Why are you even here, Spider Man?”

And _oh_ , it’s going to be more interesting than Tony expected, because the small sliver of skin that’s visible at Spider Man’s throat, where he’s rolled up his mask so he’s able to sip at his tea (because _fuck_ , but James must be some kind of tea God, that stuff is unbelievably _good_ ), is getting redder by the second, until it’s a crimson color that might rival the one on his suit.

“The truth, please,” he tacks on before Peter gets a chance to answer, because he _knows_ him. Knows that he’d try to lie first, like he always does when he’s embarrassed by something, but somehow Tony doesn’t think James will be pleased to catch Spider Man lying to him — and catch him he will, because Peter is a frankly terrible liar, no matter how hard he tries.

“Sure, Mr. Stark,” and _oh_ , it’s _that_ bad. Tony’s stomach churns with dread, suddenly, and he isn’t even sure if he still wants to know the answer. Is glad, at least, that he’s set down the mug, because this way he can press his hands flat down on the tabletop and hide the way they’re shaking, again.

Peter grimaces in such an exaggerated way that it’s visible even through his mask, and then he seems to decide to just rip off the bandaid. “So, I— I might have hacked FRIDAY?”

The silence has an entirely different quality to it, now.

“ _What?_ ” it bursts out of Tony, eventually, his thoughts struggling to catch up, because his first instinct is to panic, and this is _so_ not the right way to go, he can’t afford to think like this, not when he _knows_ it’s not true, but the first place his mind goes to is the most dangerous one, full of quicksand memories that pull Tony in and don’t let him go, the doubts and second-guesses, the wondering if he’s been betrayed again, if Peter’s only been using him this whole time, _who is he working for and what are their plans, are they going to hurt him and how much, is he going to get out of it alive one more time or will this be the time it kills him, they kill him, and fuck, Peter, why—_

There are tears in his eyes and his breath goes too fast and he’s hyperventilating, he knows he is, but he can’t seem to get a proper breath in, there are fingers in his open heart cavity, blunt metal instruments and pain, so much _pain_ , his most important organ is connected to a car battery, and it’s keeping him alive but it’s killing him, too, and how the fuck is he going to survive this, how is he supposed to keep going on, why can’t he just give up, it would be so easy to just—

He gasps for breath when there’s a touch at his fingertips, gentle, he looks up and his gaze locks with James’, and his first thought is that he’s glad James didn’t choose the same method to snap him out of it that Tony did, earlier today, because a slap to the face from the fucking Winter Soldier would fucking _hurt_ , godsdamnit. His second thought goes to letting the breath go back out, a long exhale that manages to calm his racing heart, a little, that quietens the roaring in his ears enough that he can hear what Peter’s saying.

“Fuck, Tony, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s just— I heard of what Rhodey made you do, the emergency protocol, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I linked myself in, too, but it was a bad idea, clearly it was, I’m so sorry Tony, please don’t be mad at me, I didn’t think—“

Tony’s breath rattles in his chest, in his empty lungs and empty heart, and it _hurts_ going out, but at least he’s breathing again, oxygen reaching his brain (as though extremis would ever allow anything else), and he can think beyond the panic consuming his mind.

(Then his fingers twitch and his third thought goes to the fact that he’s still touching James, or maybe James is touching him, and, for some reason, he’s hesitant to draw them away from that touch — from the way James had tipped his entire upper body across the bar, unbalanced because of the missing metal arm, just to get to _Tony_ — but the need to curl them into a fist proves too strong, in the end, the light in James’ eyes too kind to make him feel bad about it.)

(His lips form around an apology and a thank-you, but no sound comes out, and James doesn’t need to hear it to understand, anyway.)

(He smiles, instead, a little brittle and a little broken, but it’s honest, at least.)

It takes a heartbeat longer until he’s sure his voice isn’t going to sound like he’d screamed himself raw, and then Tony says, “You’re okay, Peter, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m overreacting, I just—“ He finds that can’t go on, doesn’t want to confront Peter with the mess in his mind, the scattered memories and irrational thoughts. “It was a hard day. I’m tired. It’s— I’m sorry.”

He sighs, and, finally, his pulse seems to slow. “You just caught me off guard, there.”

He wonders if it’s worth getting into the whole spiel about how _he’s a genius, he should be able to program unhackable A.I.s, it’s not that hard_ , worth playing into his supposed arrogance, but in the end, the exhaustion weighs too heavy, leaves him too weary, a tired-down-to-his-bones kind of feeling that doesn’t have much to do with how late it’s getting.

Tony sighs, again, and doesn’t say anything more. Closes his eyes and takes a breath. It still rattles in his chest, a little, but it comes easier now, a little, doesn’t hurt all that much anymore.

The silence stretches, once again, winds around him like a soft blanket, and it’s only when he lifts his mugs to his lips that he realizes it wasn’t just another pretty metaphor; there really is a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, it’s soft and warm, smells like new ( _beginnings and hopes and homes_ ), and when he looks up, he catches James’ eyes and the slow smile playing at his lips, he winks at Tony and mimes going to sleep, playful for once, a little cheeky.

Tony plans to stick out his tongue at him, honestly.

He doesn’t get halfway there before a yawn catches up with him, wide enough to dislocate his jaw, it feels like.

“Shut up,” he mutters, once he’s able to, just as a preemptive measure.

James holds up his hand placatingly, a picture of innocence, “I didn’t say anything,” and Tony almost doesn’t care about the sappy grin on his face at the response, at the knowledge that not even twelve hours out of the clutches of the Rogue Avengers can be enough to make this delightful man come out, let him hide away the shadows of the haunted creature that makes up “Bucky” Barnes, and he wonders what more James could do if only given the chance. If these shadows could possibly disappear completely, go up in light, given enough time and space and everything else he needs and wants.

He only _almost_ doesn’t care, though. Feels Rhodey and Peter’s gazes on him, too sharp and too attentive, and he doesn’t even want to know what kinds of expressions they’ve got on their faces, now, what kinds of thoughts they’d think.

He startles, though, when James tsks at him just a moment later, says, “Okay, well, I indulged you, now _you_ indulge me and go to bed, alright?”

Tony thinks someone must be truly superhuman to be able to resist those puppy eyes, the lilting tone of his voice, the way he sticks out his lower lip just _so_. _Dear gods_ , he thinks, James’ poor mother must have been unable to deny him a single wish.

But then again, Tony wouldn’t be Tony if he didn’t at least try. “But it’s so far away! I’d never get there on my own, I’d fall asleep on my feet.”

“And straight into someone else’s chest, right?” James chuckles, a lovely sound, a melody like music. ( _Dear gods_ , Tony thinks, again, he really _is_ tired.)

“A deal then,” James continues then, with a more determined look in his eyes, “you go lie down on the couch, and I’ll wake you when we’re finished here.”

Tony wants to ask about what he means, what they’ve got left to do, but another yawn cracks his jaw and he finds himself unable to do anything except nod sleepily and hold out his arms. “But only if you carry me, you strong, strong Super Soldier Ex-Assassin.”

There’s something in James’ expression that _gives_ , at this, something that softens, maybe, hardens at the same time; there’s an entirely unfamiliar kind of tension singing in his back, up his shoulder blades and neck, but Tony doesn’t think it’s a bad kind of tension. The bad kind of tension would be one that leads to snarling threats and spilling blood, and he can’t see James reaching for a weapon. Or maybe that’s just because Tony’s eyelids are so fucking heavy and he’s closed them without really noticing, and maybe that’s why he just lets himself melt into the touch at his right wrist, as it skirts up his arm, _careful, oh so careful_ , and, somehow, he gets lifted into a one-armed bridal carry kind of embrace, as his mind distantly shoots out to admire the pure strength coiled in that body, as he lets his head fall to the side, tucks his nose into the hollow at James’ throat, feeling inexplicably safe and entirely content to drift off like that.

Or, he is, at least, until James unceremoniously dumps him on the couch, leaving him yelping and flailing, rudely ripped out of his sleepy state of mind as adrenaline crawls up his throat in a way that doesn’t make him choke, for once. Still enough to give him a good scare.

“Gosh, you’re an asshole,” he mumbles, emphatically, but refuses to open his eyes, refuses to show off his red-flushed face, the way he smiles despite it all. Instead he buries said face in the arm of the couch to cool off, and gropes blindly for his blanket, planning to wrap it around his shoulders and over his head in childish protest.

Not that his plans ever work out.

James clicks his tongue, and his playfulness seems not to have left him yet, because he says, “well, and who’s the asshole who just made the cripple carry you all across the room?”

It’s clear that he expects Tony to go along with it, or maybe ignore the jab entirely, but Tony’s been an asshole for almost all his life, has made such an effort to _not_ be one, for once, that he can’t even take the implication of it, a lump rising in his throat that makes it hard to speak. It takes two tries to get out his protest, but when it leaves his lips, he knows it’s tinged with too much too raw emotion to pass as the equally playful retort it should have been. “I didn’t _make_ you!”

James’ swallow is hard enough to be audible. “Yeah,” he says, clears his throat, “well.”

 _Fuck_.

The silence doesn’t get the chance to drag on for longer than a couple heartbeats before Tony interrupts it. “Well. Goodnight.”

Tony’s heart aches in his chest at the way he managed to ruin the mood, again. He presses his eyes closed, bites at his lips, shuffles his body into a more comfortable position, anything to stop the direction his thoughts have taken.

There’s a whisper, then, wistful and soft. “Goodnight.”

The blanket settles a little higher up on his shoulder than he’d managed to drag it, and James’ hand lingers there, a second too long, maybe, a heartbeat, and it’s enough that it feels like eons too brief.

Sleep takes him before he manages to wonder about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I haven’t watched a single marvel movie that came after civil war, and even that one was years ago. So I don’t actually know Spider Man the way he’s portrayed in the movies etc — I know a little from gifs I’ve seen on tumblr (and from some WinterIron fanfics where he appeared, too), but that’s about it. So if he seems OOC in any way, that’s probably why. Sorry. (but also not, because he was hella fun to write, idek)
> 
> (oh, and please please tell me if things feel rushed here. Especially the bit at the end of James’ POV; do you think it even makes sense to have Tony’s rant there or should I have waited longer with something like that? They haven’t known each other for all that long, after all, and there _is_ some bad blood between them still…  (Then again, James really is having a ‘good day’ here… and that’s gonna change soon, sorry not sorry))
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and staying with me here <3


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